Johnny Cat
by akaAuroraBorealis
Summary: John goes away for a few days.  Sherlock is left to cope on his own and finds a new distraction.  Asexual Sherlock in a platonic friendship with John. Silly, fluffy.  A few mildly bawdy jokes.
1. On His Own

**Title:** Johnny Cat

**Rating: ** PG

**Characters:** John, Sherlock, Lestrade

**Warnings:** A couple of mildly bawdy jokes later on.

**Word Count:** This chapter: 1,600ish. Complete story: just over 24,000

**Summary:** Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of friendship.

**Author's Note**: This story is complete. I will be posting a new chapter every three days. Also, I owe a tremendous debt to my amazing and patient beta IShouldBeOverThis who, because of a far more important Real Life event, had to bow out. My thoughts are with her.

**Johnny Cat**

**Chapter 1: On His Own**

"I'll just be gone a few days," John said as he hauled his computer bag and small, well-worn duffel to the door. "My plane gets in Friday evening. There's plenty of food in the fridge, and, if you need anything, Mrs. Hudson usually runs to the market on Wednesdays." John looked over at Sherlock who had been rooted to the couch since the early hours of the morning.

"Sherlock, are you even listening?"

Sherlock had not taken his eyes off the book he was reading. Why should he? He knew it verbatim, John's "I'm going away" speech. And since Sherlock would rather think about the processes outlined in "The Amateur Embalmers Handbook" than about the fact that John would be gone for almost a week, he chose not to listen.

John didn't travel often, which suited Sherlock just fine. Although he'd never admit it, he was always miserable if John were gone for more than a day. What made it worse was that Sherlock knew there'd been a time, not a year back, before he'd started this flat-sharing arrangement with the good doctor, when he'd managed perfectly well on his own. He just couldn't, for the life of him, remember how.

It wasn't that Sherlock didn't enjoy being alone; he did. It was just that when John was off travelling without him, Sherlock, going about his day, would find himself being caught off guard again and again by the irrational feeling that he'd lost something important so that he was now unbalanced, incomplete. It was like he'd become one those amputees he'd read about in a journal article who, weeks after surgery, could still feel the absent limb and so was doomed to grieve afresh every time he tried to use it. For Sherlock, who prided himself both on his independence and his immunity to the sway of sentiment, the very neediness implied by these feelings was as disturbing as the feelings themselves. Add boredom to the mix and Sherlock would really begin to unhinge.

Once John had spent a weekend out of town with his then girlfriend, and it was a mere four hours before Sherlock was filling John's empty chair with a crude dummy made out of John's clothes stuffed with newspaper and topped with the skull he usually kept on the mantelpiece. The dummy, with its comforting John-esque appearance, had made for a fair substitute as it gave Sherlock something to talk to…well, talk at, but only for two days. For when John had gone away again, this time for three days to attend a wedding in Sussex, the dummy, being useless at making tea and, more importantly, at proclaiming Sherlock's brilliance with a heartfelt "That was amazing!" just hadn't been enough. Sherlock had ended up shooting so many holes in the wall that it had taken him eight hours to fabricate a wallpaper patch good enough to hide the damage and, more to the point, hide just how much John had been missed.

So from the day John had announced his travel plans, Sherlock began the mental equivalent of gritting his teeth. Coping for four days without John was, indeed, going to be a challenge.

"Friday evening, then. Off you go," Sherlock said, finally giving John his full attention and a pressed smile of reassurance.

John smiled back, then sighed. He always missed Sherlock, though he never said so, not in words. Instead, before going away, John would linger in the hallway, seemingly unable to wind up his protracted goodbye, his eyes searching Sherlock's face for a sign, a silent promise that Sherlock would still be there at Baker Street, safe and well, upon his return.

While John never knew exactly what Sherlock did during John's absences, when he returned, Sherlock always looked a little thinner, a little more disheveled, and a whole lot more tightly wound than when he left him. So, while John enjoyed taking a break from the wild and unpredictable life he shared with his eccentric friend, he found that after a couple of days he was anxious to get home. In fact, even after John had crossed that familiar threshold, neither he nor Sherlock could quite fully relax until John's travel bag was unpacked and stowed out of sight.

Satisfied at last and seeing no reason to delay any longer, John picked up his bags and headed out. The door closed, and Sherlock immediately picked up his phone, just to be certain he hadn't missed a text from Lestrade about being needed on a case. He hadn't. Pity. A case was just the distraction he craved.

Fortunately Sherlock had already come up with an alternative activity to engage his restless brain. Leaning back on his couch, he began drawing up a list of ingredients and equipment he'd need to procure if he were to comparing the various methods he'd been reading about that morning. When he got to the issue of what specimen to embalm (fingers or mice were good candidates because they were small and easy to store) he realized that it just wasn't the same without John there to object. He considered texting John about his plans, but realized that the tetchy reply, no matter how cleverly cutting, would be no substitute for John bristling with annoyance in person. Suddenly his experiment had become less interesting.

Sherlock was growing increasingly agitated but resisted the urge to get out John's gun from under the cleaning supplies in the kitchen (where John had been sure Sherlock would never look) and instead picked up his violin. It was not yet noon and already the day seemed interminably long.

Lestrade texted that evening, just as Sherlock had finished hanging the last of the targets on the wall. There'd been a double homicide in a locked room. Sherlock was so excited he pitched John's gun (thankfully, not loaded) onto the couch and turned two gleeful pirouettes about the living room. All the details of similar cases started pouring to the fore of his brain as he instinctively geared up for the challenge.

"Excellent—I've come across more interesting variations in locked-room scenarios than in any other…"

Sherlock cut himself off realizing he was talking to no one. Immediately he felt a sharp twinge of discord. Unacceptable. Sherlock thought he'd better devise a way to keep from forgetting that John wasn't with him. He took a scissors into John's room, cut off a length of yarn from an old jumper, and tied the string tightly around his finger. It was uncomfortably tight but probably not tight enough to do any permanent damage, at least not in four days. Sherlock had just finished when a second text arrived telling him that medical examiner assigned the case was actually looking forward to working with him. The case must be really stumping him if Lestrade was compelled to add this extra inducement to ensure Sherlock's help. This, in fact, proved to be true. But Sherlock's euphoria was short-lived, for the case which held so much promise as a high quality and long lasting distraction turned out to be a colossal disappointment as the whole thing was over, tied up in a drab little bow, in one measly hour.

"I am so tired of living in a world of idiots," thought Sherlock, glaring out the window with scorn at the offending cars and pedestrians as the cab took him back to Baker Street.

It had taken half an hour to piece together the entire crime and another ten minutes to rail at the police _and_ the criminal for being complete wastes of space and air and whatever other resources were being squandered in keeping their pathetic little brains functioning at the level of pithed frogs. Sherlock was livid and had no problem telling the world about it. Did they really need him to point out the obvious scuff marks on the floor, marks clearly indicating that the bookcase slid to reveal (surprise) a hidden door? The books were all glued in place, for Christ's sake! And the criminal was no better, leaving bloody fingerprints on the back of the bookcase and posting the whole incident on his blog in a not so cryptic entry, "Did some spring cleaning today, with my Glock 19." That the murderer turned out to be the ex-boyfriend of the murdered woman, that he had killed the couple for revenge for being thrown over, who could have foreseen such an unexpected result?

Sherlock, not even sure that the obvious sarcasm of his tirade had penetrated their skulls, stormed off yelling, "I'd say call me if you find yourselves out of your depth, but today that would include your autonomic bodily functions, so don't bother."

His mood did not improve until he was home, turning his key in his front door, for it was there that something warm and soft rubbed against his legs.


	2. A New Flatmate

**Title:** Johnny Cat, Chapter 2

**Rating: ** PG

**Characters:** John, Sherlock, and a cat named Johnny

**Warnings:** None.

**Word Count:** This chapter: 3,000ish. Complete Story: just over 24,000

**Summary:** Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of friendship.

**Beta: **IShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.

**Author's Notes**: This story is complete. I will be posting a new chapter every three days. The Wilton and La Hacienda hotels may or may not resemble the Hilton and La Quinta hotels, real places in New York City, as I've never been to either.

**Johnny Cat**

**Chapter 2: A New Flatmate**

The medical conference was to take place in the posh Wilton Hotel in downtown Manhattan. John couldn't wait to mix with medical professional, ones who published studies and gave lectures. He never would have considered making the trip—two days of travel seemed a lot for a two day conference—but he'd received an invitation and a stipend from the hosting committee which seemed keen on hearing him talk about treating sucking chest wounds under battlefield conditions.

In truth John welcomed a break from his life with his consulting detective flatmate—it was exciting but exhausting as well. Most importantly, while he was away, John's time would be his own. There would be no interruptions: no beakers exploding on the kitchen table while he was cooking dinner; no being kidnapped by thugs in the middle of his dates; and, best of all, no texts from Sherlock asking him to return home as quickly as possible because, as it often turned out, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to find a pen. Still, just the thought of Sherlock had John pulling out his phone, scanning for messages: there were none. John sighed and felt a little melancholy before he remembered he was supposed to be enjoying this solo adventure. With purpose, John pulled out his booklet of abstracts outlining the presentations he'd be hearing at the conference, adjusted his position in the surprisingly comfortable airplane seat, and began to read.

He'd gotten through the first one, a detailed description of various forms of mitral valve prolapse, when his eyes began to drift to the salaciously illustrated cover of the detective novel held by the woman seated next to him. Craning his neck, John was able to read the blurb on the back which described the book's hero as being so brilliant that he had _deduced the identity of the killer from a single grape_.

"Ha!" said John, quite loudly, "I know a guy who did that from orange seeds."

The woman lowered her book and glared at him. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," said John as contritely as he could, wondering what had gotten into him.

He supposed that now the woman wouldn't be agreeable to lending him the book when she was finished, but that was alright. He would probably be able to pick up a copy in the airport, just in case the conference (which he just knew would be totally absorbing) had a brief lull in activity. John went back to reading his abstracts, but realized he must have dozed off when he felt a jolt as the wheels of the airplane touched down. He woke to a dry mouth and an impressive drool stain on his shirt.

* * *

><p>The small buff-colored cat peaked up at Sherlock with its large eyes, dark blue and round like saucers. Sherlock had never seen this creature before. Instinctively he scooped it up, stroking its soft fur as he looked around for its owner. There was no one in sight. The cat purred softly and seemed to melt into his arms. "Well then," said Sherlock to the cat as he held it up for inspection, "you're mine for the next few days." With a look that Sherlock took as complete adoration, the cat agreed. Knowing full well that he was using the cat as a substitute for his absent companion, Sherlock immediately decided on the name John. However, when the cat began playfully batting at a button on his coat, it became apparent that Johnny, the more youthful derivative of the name, would be more suitable.<p>

Pleased beyond measure with his find, Sherlock quickly opened the door and took his new companion inside before anything, a rightful owner, for instance, could disrupt his plans. Tucking Johnny under his coat and out of sight, just in case he ran into Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time. He entered his flat, shut the door behind him, and, with a happy smirk of accomplishment spread over his face, Sherlock deftly rolled the piece of yarn, now obsolete, off his finger.

Sherlock sat the cat down on floor and took a seat on the couch to watch what it did. He'd seen cats before, of course, but he'd never had occasion to really study one up close. This particular cat was male, as demonstrated by the two large, magnificent furry balls peeking out from under its tail. Johnny seemed small for an adult cat, and Sherlock noticed that the jaunty little fellow had a small old scar below its right eye and another more recent one on its left paw, indicating it had been in at least one fight. The cat was well fed and its short coat was fairly clean, suggesting it had an owner. So, Sherlock concluded, this was a domesticated animal that, still true to its nature, escaped from time to time to have an adventure on the wild streets of London; a perfect substitute for his wayward soldier. The week was definitely looking up. Sherlock had a temporary distraction and would return the cat just before John got home.

The cat, Johnny, took off on a leisurely tour of the flat, sniffing every single piece of furniture and then rubbing up against it as it passed. Sherlock, perfectly aware of the purpose behind this activity, resisted a strong urge to kick off his shoe and rub the same areas with his own sent using his slightly aromatic socked foot; for it occurred to Sherlock that, if he did this, he would be risking an escalating war of territorial marking which, if his admittedly limited knowledge of male felines was correct, was not a war that he would want to win, especially in his own flat.

When it had completed its reconnaissance, the cat returned to Sherlock and jumping up on his lap where it proceeded to make itself comfortable. Sherlock was surprised and a little flattered that this creature had taken to the flat and himself so quickly. He knew that a cat would probably not mind the clutter, but Sherlock had been working with a particularly malodorous sulfur compound several nights ago, and he thought the creature might be put off by the faint "rotten egg" smell. Also, Sherlock was well aware that people found his personality to be both cold and abrasive. Apparently this little creature was not so easily put off; in fact, he seemed inexplicably drawn to him. Equally unexpected was that Sherlock seemed to be drawn to the cat, for, before he knew what was happening, he was stroking the little fellow from head to tail. And, stranger still, he could not help smiling as he did so.

Sherlock knew that people kept cats and other pet for comfort and companionship, but only now did he truly understand the powerful drive behind this practice. There was clearly no purpose to petting this cat, so soft and warm and alive beneath his hand. Still, he did not want to stop. Sherlock noticed that his own breathing was getting slower and more regular and that his muscles were relaxing. He wasn't even upset anymore about the case or John being away or anything. It was as if this small creature had the power to clear away the static from his mind so that all that remained was the brilliance. Sherlock briefly considered smuggling Johnny with him on crime scenes to help block out Anderson's obnoxious brainwaves, but remembering the cat-stroking villain in that painfully simplistic spy movie he had watched with John the week before, quickly dismissed the idea.

At some point, Sherlock stopped thinking about his own reactions and began to observe Johnny. The little cat was moving in response to his hand, arching up to meet him, angling his head to better receive a rub under the chin. Why, the cat was really enjoying himself! This was all quite new to Sherlock, this exchange of physical contact for mutual pleasure. It's not that Sherlock didn't enjoy touching people or things—it's just that he always did so as a means to an end, never for the sheer pleasure of the experience. Now, thanks to Johnny, he was beginning to gain some insight as to the benefits of such behavior.

"Cats are wonderful", he thought. "They know what they want, they find someone who will give it to them, and they're just happy to enjoy the moment." Then, a little sadly, Sherlock concluded his train of thought, "Humans, with all their hidden agendas, are far inferior in this area."

As if intending to cheer him up, Johnny began to purr. The diminutive cat produced a surprisingly robust sound, far louder and deeper than one would expect. Sherlock thought it sounded a lot like the low, powerful rumble of Angelo's 1970 Karmann Ghia convertible when it was properly tuned. Johnny's blissful vibrations worked their way through Sherlock's thigh muscles as the pleasant rumble ebbed and flowed soothingly in his ears. Before he knew it, Sherlock found he'd achieved new level of relaxation and contentment; that was until the cat began its new activity of kneading Sherlock's crotch with its sharp claws. With a small cry of surprise (and pain) Sherlock leapt to his feet.

Sherlock could only suppose that Johnny must have forgotten how to retract his claws, for he hung there, dangling from Sherlock's trousers, with a look on his face that said, "A little help?" Sherlock, well accustomed to helping out a diminutive friend in a bind, was happy to assist. He sat back down and began carefully detaching the ensnared creature's claws so as not to snag his trousers. Sherlock then set the grateful cat down on John's favorite armchair.

"Not good, Johnny," Sherlock said sternly, wagging a finger and trying to imitate the expression of disapproval John had given him so often. He knew he wasn't supposed to feel smug or superior (John never did) but he did all the same. It was a nice reversal to be teaching his flatmate about appropriate behavior instead of the other way around. The cat showed no signs of understanding, but happily settled into the new chair where it turned its claws on the less sensitive Union Jack pillow.

Satisfied with this arrangement, Sherlock picked up his laptop and returned to his couch. The cat finished its attack on the pillow and curled up to sleep. It snored softly. Sherlock found the noise to be somehow familiar and very pleasant, not unlike John's snore after a big dinner and a few hours of telly. Taking a seat on the couch, Sherlock began composing his memo to Lestrade outlining the basic guidelines for interpreting floor scrapes and indentations at crime scenes. He'd have plenty of time to finish before Johnny woke and wanted dinner.

* * *

><p>John, wide awake after his long sleep, took a cab from the airport to his hotel, a modest place called La Hacienda. He would have preferred to stay at the conference site, but the cost of a room at the Wilton was far beyond his means. His room was small and the air conditioner was quite loud, but John was not that fussy—a bed and a place to wash up were about all he required.<p>

He was hungry, having eaten nothing on his flight, and decided he wanted some Chinese. He hailed a cab and asked it to take him to China Town.

"Any place in particular?" asked the cabbie.

"No," said John, "Just drop me off in the middle." He wanted to inspect a few door handles before making his choice.

The food at restaurant he'd selected was, indeed, very good. John ordered three main dishes, his usual amount, but was surprised at only being able to eat half of it. Looking at the empty chair across from him, John remembered that he usually dined with Sherlock who, out of pride, would never admit to any mortal weakness, especially not his enormous just-finished-a-case appetite or his lust for sticky sweet spareribs. As a result, whenever they ate out, Sherlock always under-ordered and ended up poaching most of his dinner from John's plate. Looking down at the remaining Kung Pao Chicken, Szechuan Beef, and Mu Shu Pork, John frowned grimly as he considered the waste—there was no refrigerator at the hotel in which to store the leftovers. Valiantly he tucked in the few more forkfuls his waistband would allow before setting down his fork with a heavy sigh of defeat.

John spent the next hour soothing his over-stuffed belly with a couple pots of tea while he observed the other diners. It was a fabulous show. At one table there was a heated argument between three very effeminate men, complete with thrown drinks. At another table, a man kept leaving the restaurant every fifteen minutes at which time his date would switch their water glasses. Finally, at the bar there was a large group of what looked to be sixty-year-old biker babes sporting leather jackets emblazed with the name "Silver Beavers" who, on the surface, seemed to be swapping muffin recipes when they weren't throwing back shots of tequila. Several times John almost reached for his phone to text Sherlock, who he knew would be able to give a full account of each oddity. But, determined to protect his personal time, even if it killed him to do so, John resisted.

Still bloated from his meal, John caught a cab back to the hotel where he spent most of the evening watching really bad telly—not the same without Sherlock whose snorts and eye rolls made that sort of tripe somehow much more enjoyable. It grew late, but as he was still wide awake from all that tea, John decided to go over his lecture notes one last time. His PowerPoint slides with their neat rows of bullet points and purposefully over-simplified illustrations paraded before his eyes in familiar succession. After five minutes he was out like a light.

* * *

><p>As Sherlock had predicted, Johnny woke up hungry. He mewed plaintively in a sweet high tenor (so different from that deep guttural engine of a purr) and began making pass after pass, rubbing himself against Sherlock's legs.<p>

"A funny little brain and no opposable thumbs—how on earth do you manage?"

For once, Sherlock was going to have to be the domestic caretaker. Surprisingly, he didn't mind. Having no interest in going to the market, Sherlock rooted through the kitchen to find something a cat would eat. He found a tin of sardines, one of many in John's supply of "emergency rations", and some milk. These Sherlock set out on the table where he could better observe Johnny eat. The cat liked his dinner very much. In fact, he tucked into those sardines with such relish that Sherlock found that he too had a craving for them and helped himself to two of the remaining fish on Johnny's plate. Johnny seemed quite happy to share and switched to lapping up the milk. The cat's tongue moved so quickly, Sherlock couldn't quite see how it worked. He decided to try it himself and scooted Johnny away so he could access the saucer. The result was unsatisfactory. Milk splashed everywhere and he consumed very little. But the experiment had dictated tonight's activity; researching cat tongues online. A better understanding of the biomechanics involved was sure to lead to a better result tomorrow. Tonight he would have to settle for using a glass.

In a few hours, Johnny was off touring the flat again. Sherlock, curious, followed him, only to find the cat relieving himself in the corner behind an end table. He vaguely knew about litter boxes, but decided he'd rather not bother with one as his rooming with Johnny was temporary. Pity there was no park or open space nearby; Regents Park, with all the dogs and heavy foot traffic, simply would not do.

After giving the matter a few moments thought, Sherlock came up with a solution that appealed to him. Whenever Johnny started talking a walk around the flat, he would pick him up and take him outside tucked inside his coat. Then, when the coast was clear, Sherlock would lift Johnny into one of large flower pots that graced many of the entrances of the nearby hotels and restaurants. Of course, since cat feces and urine were an excellent source of nutrients for plants, everyone would benefit from this admittedly unorthodox arrangement.

Johnny gave Sherlock the "signal" later that evening, and off they went. Sherlock set Johnny down in what he decided was a prime location, a great big pot of pelargonia in front of a posh Indonesian restaurant three blocks from his flat. Smart fellow that he was, Johnny twigged to the plan right away and immediately began excavating a small trench in the soft soil. Sherlock stood guard and tried to act nonchalant, as if he were simply waiting for his dinner companion to arrive. Although the job lacked glamour of a traditional stakeout, Sherlock found it to be thrilling none the less, especially when the maître d' became suspicious and started to walk towards them brandishing a thickly bound menu. Johnny had finished his business but was still enjoying himself, frolicking amongst the plants and chewing on leaves, when Sherlock, aware of the danger, deftly scooped him up, put him under his coat, and raced for home. He could feel the little cat's heart beat fast against his chest, and when they were safe behind the front door at Baker Street, Sherlock, full of joy and affection, peeked in at the soft bundle tucked inside his coat and whispered, "Now that, Johnny, truly was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

The next morning Sherlock was taking Johnny on another "stakeout" when he spotted a young teenage girl and her mother posting fliers. He looked and, sure enough, there was Johnny's picture. Careful to keep Johnny tucked away inside his coat, Sherlock followed the pair until they reached their flat located just around the corner from his own. It took him no time to spot the open upstairs window, cracked just wide enough for a small, bold cat to escape down the adjacent fire escape. That would be where Sherlock would return him, in time.


	3. Something Must Have Rubbed Off

**Title:** Johnny Cat, Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off

**Rating: ** PG

**Characters:** John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Anderson, a cat named Johnny (OC), Dr. Shapiro (OC), and Rhonda (OC)

**Warnings:** Bawdy humour.

**Word Count:** This chapter: 4,300ish. Complete Story: just over 24,000

**Summary:** Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of friendship.

**Beta: **IShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine. Also, many thanks to Livia Carica whose keen eyes found ways to improve the bar scene.

**Author's Notes**: The Wilton and La Hacienda hotels may or may not resemble the Hilton and La Quinta hotels, real places in New York City, as I've never been to either.

**Johnny Cat**

**Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off**

John's speech had gone over surprisingly well. Yes, it had helped that he knew his material inside and out. Of course he did. He'd lived it and remembered more about those days serving as an army doctor and medic in Afghanistan than he did about what he'd eaten for breakfast that morning. True, the reserved demeanor of his audience and the hushed silence of the large auditorium had thrown him, just for a second. And, for a brief moment, John had wished that the atmosphere could have been more like it had been the last time he'd given this talk when, pinned down by heavy enemy fire, John had taken the opportunity to lecture the three green medics he'd taken with him on patrol on the finer points of battlefield triage, which he was able to demonstrate as he was also, conveniently, engaged in closing a massive bleeder gushing from the traumatically filleted chest of a freshly wounded soldier. Yes, the somber lecture hall definitely lacked the energy and sense of immediacy provided by an active battlefield, and John had worried that he himself might fall asleep before the first slide. But somehow, as if taken over by a powerful outside force, John had found his voice and plunged ahead with a bravado that had surprised him.

In less than a minute he, John Watson, an ex-army doctor far more comfortable with a gun and a scalpel than he was with a microphone, had taken total command of the room. Striding back and forth across the small stage, lighting up the text bullets of his slides with his laser pointer, John stared down the sleepy and the ironically bemused faces as he paused to ask the audience a question, then, flaring with impatience, he answered it himself, adding perhaps one too many "obviouslys" in making his point. He was dynamic, he was on fire, he was…oh my god…channeling his flatmate. It was like an out of body experience, a very good one, but when it was over and the crowd had dispersed (the crowd which, to a man, had stood and applauded) John was left thinking, "Where the hell did that come from?"

Just as John was about to hurry off to find a closet or an empty room where he could let out the huge upwelling of hysterical giggles he was suppressing, he was approach by an elderly gentleman. John recognized his kind face from the lecture hall. The man had been sitting the front row and had listened to his lecture in rapt attention.

"Wonderful presentation, Dr. Watson," the old fellow said, extending his hand. "I'm just glad I'm not speaking next—you'd be a hard act to follow. Although I would have liked to have heard more about…"

The man wore no nametag. "Damn," thought John, "If I had taken the time to research the other speakers, I'd know who this guy is and could say something appropriate instead of grinning and staring like an idiot."

But then he noticed the man's boots, coincidentally the exact same style as those Sherlock pointed out during a case as being custom made and only available at one boutique in Melbourne, Australia. The boots, the deep tan that stopped at the neckline (in March), the New York accent that sounded a little muddled as if mixed with something else (yes, could well be Australian), his age, and the comment he was now making about his work in the field of pericardial infections gave John his answer.

"Doctor Shapiro! Thank you so much for inviting me to speak. Fantastic conference you've organized. And how are things at Austin Hospital?"

John felt a huge rush of relief. Standing before him was the man most likely responsible for getting the committee to invite him, John Watson, not an acclaimed researcher but a humble ex-army doctor, to speak. It was also very likely that Dr. Shapiro was also responsible for John getting the generous stipend that had made his trip to New York possible.

"Fine, just fine. So, we've never met, but it appears you've done your homework. What did you think about my last paper, the one recommending new precautions against multidrug resistant staphylococci in RAMC facilities?"

John froze like a deer caught in the headlights. He hadn't read that paper or anything else by the good Dr. Shapiro. All John knew was what he had read in the limited description outlined in the conference brochure. John knew that Dr. Shapiro was the conference organizer. He knew that he was formerly a heart surgeon at Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York. He knew that he was currently researching heart infections in recovering soldiers at Austin Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. But that was it, the sum total of everything knew about the man standing before him, effectively his host and patron, and the man waiting to hear John's opinion on what he could tell was his all-consuming passion. There was only one thing to do.

"I wish I could tell you that, Dr. Shapiro, I really do, because I can think of few issues more important than the problem of MRSI in hospitals. But, to be honest, I've found myself caught up in some other projects which leave me little time to keep up with journal articles in the way I would like."

Dr. Shapiro's smiled sympathetically. He had a soft spot for soldiers and army doctors, and clearly, based on his unorthodox but admittedly impassioned speaking style, Dr. John Watson was to be given some leeway—war does take its toll on good men.

"That's alright, son. When you get a chance. I just thought that since you knew who I was…I go incognito so I can shirk my duties and enjoy the talks with everyone else." Dr. Shapiro winked as he tapped the place on his shirt where his nametag should have been. Then suddenly, puzzled, he asked, "But then how then, may I ask, _did_ you know who I was?"

Maybe it was the older doctor's kindly mannerisms, or maybe it was a bit of residual bravado left over from his lecture, but for some reason, without giving it another thought, John told him.

When he saw Dr. Shapiro's reaction, John knew he should have lied ("Someone pointed you out earlier."). What was that he always told Sherlock?

_You know I never tire of hearing your lines of deduction as they are nothing short of brilliant, but please, Sherlock, could you try to keep them too yourself. Certain people, police inspectors, research scientists, market analysts, people who think of themselves as observant and intelligent professionals, really hate to be the object of your skills. It really gets up their nose and, in the end, makes your job all that much harder. _

"Well that was interesting," Dr. Shapiro said flatly, his expression considerably cooler than before. "But next time, son, you can always just Google me. I won't mind. No shame in joining the 21st century."

John tried to make things right. He promised he would read the article, and he promised to email Dr. Shapiro immediately with his opinion. Then he extended his hand and, as warmly as he could, thanked the man for all the work he'd done with recovering soldiers. And when they went their separate ways, Dr. Shapiro to mingle and John to get a drink, John knew things were a little better between them. Only, he still felt like a complete arse.

* * *

><p>It was mid-morning when Sherlock got a call from Lestrade saying that, if Sherlock were interested, he could use his help on a case. But, there was one restriction: Sherlock could not visit the scene. Instead, Lestrade would email the schematics, a residential apartment building from which someone had either jumped or been pushed.<p>

Sherlock, of course, protested. He wanted to visit the location, collect his own data, and get his own impression of the circumstances surrounding the event. But Lestrade said that would be impossible. Sherlock's outburst the day before had so thoroughly demoralized the members of his team that Lestrade thought they needed some time to regain their confidence, well away from Sherlock's acerbic tongue. Sherlock protested. Lestrade stood firm. In the end, though frustrated and angry that his work had to be compromised by other people's ineptitude and fragile egos, Sherlock realized that Lestrade would not budge. Grudgingly, he accepted his terms.

Sherlock paced restlessly around the living room while he waited for the email, pausing every minute or so to peer at the screen of his laptop before resuming his march. Johnny, perched on his chair, watched Sherlock's movements with interest, his tail flicking back and forth in sympathetic anticipation. The email's arrival was announced by a small "ding". Much to Sherlock's amusement, at that same moment, the small cat started to purr.

The diagram of the tragic scene showed a four story building with north facing windows. The windows of the occupants who had admitted to being home at the time of the murder were colored red. The windows of the two people who claimed to have seen the body fall were also marked, indicated as Witness One and Witness two. The witnesses' statements were there as well as a description of the victim. All in all, Sherlock thought the email looked a little thin.

Witness One, a 55-year-old retired bricklayer living on the fourth floor, had reported that his windows had been open that day and that he'd heard the victim scream as he flew past. Although he'd been quite upset, he'd had the presence of mind to check his watch before calling the police—it had said 5:15 PM. The time corresponded with the timestamp on the call.

Witness number two, a 37-year-old schoolteacher home sick with the flu, lived on the second floor. In her statement she said that, by mere coincidence, she had been looking out the window when she thought she saw a body fall past. She knew she was feverish and had believed that what she'd seen had been a hallucination. Alarmed, she'd immediately taken some paracetamol and gone straight to bed. Only when the police knocked on her door about an hour later had she learned about the tragedy. As sick as she had been, this witness had been able to recall that one of her favorite television programs had been on when the body flew past her window. That placed the incident somewhere between 4:30 and 5:00 PM.

Lestrade's description of the victim was annoyingly brief. His name was Devin Burns, he was 46 years old, and he'd lived alone in an apartment on the third floor. Devin was supposed to have been at the office that day where he worked as an insurance claims adjuster. Devin's boss said that Devin always worked until 6:00, never went home for lunch, and never left the office unless it was to investigate a claim. Devin's office mates had said that he was a nice guy, shy and a bit of a workaholic. Nobody knew much about his social life outside of work. As far as anyone knew, the guy had no enemies and was not depressed.

Neither Witness One nor Witness Two admitted to having known the victim beyond the occasional exchange of pleasantries on the lift. Also, neither witness could find anyone to corroborate their version of events or even their whereabouts that day. While other tenants of the building had been at home, none had seen either the victim or the two witnesses.

Sherlock paced as he thought aloud. Johnny, eyes bright, seemed to hang on every word.

"So, because of the time difference, one of them is lying, obviously. And because someone is lying, it is likely we're dealing with a murder, not a suicide. All we need is the motive."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together and smirked gleefully before plopping himself down on the couch and assuming his "thinking position": knees tucked up under his chin, hands pressed together before his lips, eyes closed. Johnny remained on his chair and assumed his "thinking position" which involved languidly but thoroughly licking himself.

After an hour's thought, Sherlock opened his eyes and proclaimed, "It's no use. I need more data. If Lestrade would only let me talk to the witnesses, I'm sure I could make 'em sing." (Sherlock had recently been watching old gangster movies with John and, when it suited him, enjoyed peppering his speech with a bit of the colorful 1930s lingo.)

Johnny, as if sensing his input was needed, stretched himself, leapt off the chair, sauntered purposefully across the room, and jumped onto Sherlock's open laptop. Sherlock must have found these antics helpful because immediately he had an idea. Eyes wide and face beaming, Sherlock scooped up the helpful little cat and briefly considered kissing its nose in gratitude. But, remembering all that recent and very personal grooming, he prudently decided to bestow a few strokes under the chin instead.

"Of course. That insurance adjuster was a workaholic. His recent history is probably spelled out in his company's computer records. I'll just help myself to a look, and if I don't find anything, we'll move on to the dame. Femme fatales come in all guises, you know. Even teachers. Even calicos, my little Casanova."

With a grave tilt of his head, Sherlock indicated the window near the fire escape, the one he'd left cracked as an experiment to see whether Johnny would take himself on "stakeouts", only to discover Johnny's two main passions; small game trophy hunting and "visiting" with lady cats. Sherlock's firm tone had demanded contrition, but instead the cheeky little feline responded by elevating his tail to display his impressive "goods" and meowing in a decidedly lascivious tone. It was if Johnny were saying, "I am what I am, Sherlock. Take me or leave me, but I can't change, not even for you." Sherlock reflexively rolled his eyes in disgust but couldn't help smiling with affection all the same. Somehow at that moment Sherlock came to realize that, when it came to this wee cat and its amorous behavior, it really was all fine.

Hacking into the insurance company records proved difficult but not impossible. By the end of the day, Sherlock had what he needed to establish a motive for murder. He printed out the incriminating evidence and prepared to leave for the Met.

Sensing his work was done, Johnny departed for Sherlock's bedroom. An accumulation of tawny fur on the end of the duvet indicated that the little fellow liked to sleep at the foot of Sherlock's bed when Sherlock was out. He'd chosen this spot, Sherlock reasoned, because it was soft and because Johnny, an earthy sort of fellow, liked that it smelled of Sherlock, esteemed provider of food and affection.

"We'll celebrate with dinner when I return," Sherlock called out before closing the door to the flat behind him. He would have to remember to pick some more of that arugula Johnny liked from the pot in front of the French restaurant. Although he told himself it was for the cat, Sherlock had actually become quite fond of his sardines, milk, and arugula meals. The taste combination suited him and he didn't suffer from the dreaded post-repast lethargy which dulled his mental abilities. And the company was nice too.

When Sherlock walked into his office, Lestrade looked wary, as if he'd just admitted a wasp or a porcupine. But it took only seconds to see that he needn't have worried. Yes, Sherlock was still Sherlock. He was arrogant, he was brilliant, and he was dramatic, but he wasn't like he'd been the other day. He wasn't the viciously critical malcontent who had torn Lestrade's staff to shreds because of some unnamed bee in his bonnet. In fact, that afternoon Sherlock seemed strangely at peace with the universe. This was most perplexing as Lestrade couldn't remember Sherlock ever being anywhere near this reasonable or well-behaved without John by his side.

As if cued by Lestrade's thoughts, Anderson, a first class git and a second class medical examiner, waltzed through the door. He seemed surprised to see Sherlock there, but quickly found his composure and launched into his usually litany of snide remarks aimed at his perceived rival.

"So, Sherlock, I see you're working without your pet again. Based on what happened yesterday, I'm surprised you're even allowed in the building. Think you can hold that arrogant tongue of yours without him holding your leash? (Anderson had an annoying way of bungling the simplest of metaphors.) Where is Johnny Boy anyway?"

To Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock completely ignored Anderson's provocation. Instead of devastating him with a cutting remark or an embarrassingly accurate description of some hidden debauchery, Sherlock simply answered his question, blandly and perfunctorily as if he'd been asked the time.

"Oh, he's at home, curled up at the foot of my bed."

Anderson, jaw dropped and eyebrows arched to the heavens, looked at Lestrade for some acknowledgement that he'd heard it too. He got none, only an "Off you go, Anderson. Not your case. Not your business."

Anderson left, his face almost vibrating with evil glee, to find a receptive ear for his gossip. Lestrade shot Sherlock a look of concern, but Sherlock dismissed Anderson and the whole interruption as unimportant with a casual wave of his hand and got on with briefing Lestrade on his findings as if nothing had passed. For his part, Lestrade found it hard to focus as he was still agog Sherlock hadn't risen to the bait. And there was that weird bit about John being curled up at the foot of Sherlock's bed. That too.

As it turned out, Sherlock explained, the case was quite simple. The motive for the murder was one of the most common, to cover up a previous crime.

By looking at the insurance company's files, Sherlock had found that Devin, by chance, had come across the twelve year old disability claim filed by his neighbor, the retired brick layer. Sherlock reasoned that Devin had known that the bricklayer was not at all disabled in the way described in the claim. Then, perhaps out of some misplaced sense of neighborliness, Devin had made the mistake of going to the bricklayer's apartment to let the man explain himself before alerting his company to the fraud. Clearly Devin had not been convinced, and the older (and not at all disabled) man had managed to push him out of the fourth story window as a way of shutting him up. Devin's death was the only way to be sure his fraud would not be discovered.

The time difference was simply due to the fact that the bricklayer had waited some time to calm down before phoning the police. He had no idea that there had been another witness who would place the event earlier. "Simple," Sherlock concluded in his usual fashion, but Lestrade could not help but think that, for the first time, Sherlock has used that word not as an in-your-face reminder of his superiority, but rather as a kind of punctuation mark signaling the closing of his case.

Their meeting ended with Lestrade thanking Sherlock for his efforts and assuring him that, if something came up, he would not hesitate to enlist his help. Furthermore, Lestrade let Sherlock know that he would have no problem with Sherlock visiting crime scenes if he wished. John, too, Lestrade added, hoping that Sherlock would clarify what he'd said earlier about the doctor's whereabouts. But Sherlock added nothing, and Lestrade was left scratching his head, wondering as to whether Sherlock had been serious or whether he'd suddenly developed a very odd sense of humour. The man was impossible to read, so only time would tell.

* * *

><p>The bar at the Wilton was elegant, not a bit like the comfortable neighborhood pubs John preferred, but it was close by, so it would do. Still stinging from his embarrassing encounter with Dr. Shapiro, John ordered a whiskey. It was 2:15 PM, too early to be drinking, especially on an empty stomach, but John didn't feel like eating: he felt like forgetting. Usually John was too busy, either working for Sherlock, or worrying about Sherlock, or being amazed or irritated by Sherlock, to have time for rubbish like self-pity. But Sherlock wasn't there, so John decided to make alcohol his distraction; a poor substitute but it would have to do.<p>

John rarely drank much these days, and when he did it was no more than a pint or two at home after a long day at work or while watching football match at the pub. He was on his second round when a lovely blonde, 5 ft 11 and all curves, sat down next to him and flashed one of those warm smiles that, coming from a beautiful woman, made John forget his troubles far more quickly than Glenlivet. John introduced himself and bought her a drink. She liked her gin and tonic with lots of ice.

Rhonda was her name, Rhonda Jackson, and she was as warm and sunny as the state of Florida from which she hailed. Rhonda was a pediatric cardiologist and was attending the conference as well. She had seen John's talk and, with honeyed tones and batting eyes, asked if he would tell her more about what it was like to serve as a doctor in Afghanistan.

"Tell me, Dr. Watson," she said, leaning in close, "how did you make it through that horror? I mean, was there someone waiting for you at home, someone you could think about in your times of need?"

Rhonda reached out and laid her hand lightly on John's arm as she spoke. (Oh, how he _loved_ when women did that!) Her eyes were wide with concern and she nodded in sympathy as he describe what he knew were routine situations. But that afternoon, looking into that eager face, fuchsia mouth and large sky-blue eyes, John found himself romanticizing and aggrandizing events, just a tad, so as not to disappoint his audience.

An hour had passed and they were on their fourth round. Maybe it was because her drinks were half ice, or maybe it was because she'd eaten lunch, but Rhonda was not nearly as plastered as John. While he wasn't quite slurring his words, John found that certain letters were definitely getting harder to say. It was also becoming more and more difficult to keep eye-contact. Rhonda was rather tall, and twice John (mortified) had caught himself talking to her chest which sat prominently, voluptuously at eye-level. But Rhonda, gracious creature that she was, didn't seem to mind. She was in the middle of telling a heart-warming story about some operations she had performed, life-saving heart surgeries, while on a mission in Ethiopia, when John began to lose the thread of her narrative. At one point Rhonda paused to ask John a question. Maybe it was because of the noise (the bar was getting crowded) or maybe it was because John was a bit drunk, but he had only been able to catch a few phrases. He tried to figure out what she had asked him, but all he had to work with was "come look", "up in my room", and "my fanny". A sober John knew to ask for further clarification before jumping to conclusions. A drunk John just liked to jump.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, his face lighting up with amusement and disbelief.

Rhonda explained that she had some photos of these precious children, the one's whose lives she'd saved in Ethiopia, in her fanny pack up in her room. As inebriated as he was, John took a long moment to process this.

Then, with a howl of laughter and a playful slap on her thigh he yelled over the din, "Oh, thank goodness. That makes far more sense. I thought you wanted me to go up to your room and look at your VA-GI-..."

The slap she gave him was so hard John was sure that everyone in the building must have felt it. Either that or, perhaps, John had overestimated the ambient noise of the bar, because all thirty odd patrons, most wearing nametags like his, stopped talking, turned their way, and gaped.

"Not good," thought John, tipsily. Or maybe he'd said it aloud. He wasn't sure.

Frantically he searched the crowd for an English face, whatever the hell that might be. The odds were slim that anyone there could corroborate the existence of the English slang term "fanny" (the source of his confusion) and, thus, prove the innocence of his uncharacteristically vulgar remark. Really, it had just been a colossal cross-cultural misunderstanding, but John knew that, without backup, any attempt at an explanation, especially in his current state, would most likely make things worse. Alas, he came up empty. So, with as much dignity as he could muster, John hopped down from his bar stool, bid Rhonda's chest a fond farewell and made his way, slowly and steadily, through the lobby and out onto the street where he hailed a cab. The only thought that cheered him that afternoon was that, as badly as his day had turned out, what with making an arse of himself, twice, poor abandoned Sherlock's day had probably been worse.


	4. Fine Alone, Better Together

**Title:** Johnny Cat, Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together

**Rating: ** PG

**Characters:** John, Sherlock, a cat named Johnny, Ray (an OC)

**Warnings:** None for this chapter.

**Word Count:** This chapter: 2,800ish. Complete Story: just over 24,000

**Summary:** Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of friendship.

**Beta: **IShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.

**Author's Notes**: This story is complete. With the help of my beta, I've rewritten the first three chapters so that the story holds together a bit better (I hope). I will be posting a new chapter every three days. Thanks for your support and patience!

**Johnny Cat**

**Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together**

John spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in his hotel room, reading the pulpy detective novel he'd picked up at the airport, the one staring a detective so brilliant he could _deduce the identity of the killer from a single grape_. Somehow this ridiculous book with its contrived plot and its two-dimensional hero (a street-wise loner with a whip-smart brain and a tortured, Byronesque soul) made him feel better, closer to the life he'd left back in London, his life with Sherlock. Because after yesterday, as much as he'd enjoyed the admiration of his fellow doctors, John realized they weren't his people anymore. But had they ever been? John had always been quite comfortable mixing with members of the mainstream medical establishment, but that was before Afghanistan, before Sherlock. Now John found that the world of medical research, with its dry papers and overheated lecture halls, made him feel both agitated and logy, made him positively itch to do something spontaneous and physical like jump across rooftops or shoot a wall full of holes. As strange as it seemed, the twists and turns of John's life had made Sherlock—that brilliant, childish, difficult man—his people. They were an odd tribe of two.

Around six John was hungry and, still feeling a bit addled from all those drinks, decided to stay in. After devouring an enormous and oh-so-tasty pastrami on rye (recommended by the desk clerk and delivered from the local deli) he stretched out on the bed. The loud, steady drone of the air conditioner sent him right off to sleep and into the waiting arms of a beautiful dream; nothing but dark coattails, heart-pounding risk, ice-blue eyes, and brilliant deductions. John's newly rotund middle gurgled with contentment as his sleepwalking tongue licked the last of the salty, fatty flavor off his fingers.

When John awoke it was already 10:00 PM, and he was feeling well-rested. After flicking through a few channels of vacuous television, he decided he really ought to get out and tour the city. Who knows when he'd get another chance? So after a quick shower and shave, John headed down to the lobby to ask the concierge to recommend a destination. Certainly New York would have some worthwhile amusement to help a solitary traveler pass the time.

As he was approaching the front desk, a group of older gentlemen—five in all—burst in through the front door. Loud in both voice and dress, they could have been ordinary New York tourists, except for an odd unifying theme: these men all wore red fezzes and silver bolo ties. Everything about these men shouted "celebration!", and the mute-beige lobby now sparkled with the colorful din of their easy camaraderie.

"We're takin' this party to the roof!" one of them announced, giving the desk clerk a cheeky wink and devilish smile. Then, looking at John, he added, "You're more than welcome to join us, if ya don't mind freezin' your briskets off. It's a hell of a view up there, and there's always room for one more in this crowd. Besides, these ol' cowboys have already heard my stories." There was a laughing roar of agreement as the party headed for the elevator two by three, arm in arm. John could hear the beginning of what sounded like an old, vulgar drinking song before the elevator doors closed and the room returned to its beige silence.

"Who are those guys? Where are they going?" John asked the clerk who was still smiling in amusement as she bustled about behind her desk sorting papers.

Those men, she told John, leaning in conspiratorially, were her absolute most favorite guests. They always stayed at La Hacienda whenever they were in town, which was often. They were Shriners, members of a men's philanthropic organization. The Shriners raised money for children's hospitals but were equally famous for their love of having a good time. The highlights of their lives were the times they could scrape up money for a plane ticket, leave the wives at home (usually somewhere in small-town America) and come to New York for a convention or a parade. Sometimes they were a little loud and their jokes a little "blue", but the clerk always found them "hale fellows well met", always friendly, always polite. And, she confided, they tipped generously.

The Shriner's favorite hangout was the hotel's rooftop bar where the view was astoundingly good, especially considering the reasonable price of the drinks. These fellows had limited cash and were always looking for ways to economize so that the party would last as long as possible. And, of course, there was the added benefit of a close bed for when they overindulged, which they almost always did.

It took John no time at all to decide he would rather spend his evening hanging out with some friendly fellow travelers than taking his chances at some overcrowded and fashionably overpriced nightspot. He'd have to take it easy on the alcohol, though. This afternoon had taught him nothing if not that he needed to stay sharp to make sure that his English that left his lips was coming in clearly to their American ears. One small but hugely embarrassing cultural misunderstanding was enough for one day.

When the elevator doors opened, John could see the city lights twinkling in the cold. Just beautiful! The March air was a little nippy, but there was no wind to chase away the patrons. Not surprisingly, over half the seats were taken.

Above the loud and easy banter old cronies, John heard the genial boom of a familiar voice, "Glad you could make it! A beer for my new friend and keep 'em comin'! Everything's on me tonight!" The man motioned for John to join him at the bar.

"Name's Ray." The big fellow grinned as he clasped John's hand in a friendly bear-paw grip.

This, John realized, was the happiest he'd been since arriving in the Big Apple.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke with a start. The noise had been so horrifically loud and so grating he'd nearly fallen off of the couch. Readjusting his robe with a haughty flourish, he got up to investigate. The sound, clearly identifiable now as a caterwaul, was echoed by a faint reply coming from the street below. Johnny was at the window pacing back and forth, tail raised, ears pricked, obviously wanting to go out.<p>

"Keep that up and you'll wake Mrs. Hudson and the jig will be up," Sherlock warned the wee cat in a hushed and serious tone. Johnny looked up at Sherlock and wailed more softly, beseechingly. Sherlock, sounding much like John, huffed out a put-upon sigh.

"From experience I know that if I don't let you out for a little," he paused dramatically, searching the air with his hand for the least distasteful word, "_recreation_ with your female companions, you'll become distracted and useless."

Sherlock didn't think he could, if pressed, define Johnny's usefulness (he was still collecting data on the subject) yet he was sure that he felt and worked better when Johnny was around and, most importantly, focused on Sherlock. So, specifics aside, Sherlock thought his statement valid.

Sherlock opened the window and, like a shot, Johnny was out onto the fire escape. In no time the little cat had descended, disappearing into the pheromone-soaked darkness of the street.

"Come back to me, John," Sherlock spoke softly into the night, or would have if he ever spoke his emotions aloud. But this was not Sherlock's way, so instead he pressed his fingers against the windowpane and searched the night for his feline companion. But Johnny, a cat on a mission, was long gone.

Sherlock returned to the couch. There he lay, stock-still, eyes closed, listening to the sound of at least three cats yowling their passion into the still night air. An untold number of minutes passed as Sherlock tired, without success, to distinguish the sounds made by his small friend from all the others floating upon the cool evening breeze. Occupied as he was, Sherlock did not remember drifting off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Ray was in his late sixties, had leathered brown skin, and sported an impressive beer belly that lapped over an uncomfortable looking saucer-sized belt buckle. When John asked what brought him to New York, it was like uncorking a bottle of champagne: Ray just loved to talk.<p>

Ray began by saying that he'd flown in from Tulsa, Oklahoma two days ago. He and his buddies would be participating in the Saint Patrick's Day parade the coming Sunday. It was going to be a hoot. They'd be driving miniature cars in tight circles and intricate drill-team formations in front of the Shrine float as it tooled down Fifth Avenue. The float, a glitzy rig featuring an unlikely mix of sword fighting pirates and doctors tending to sick children, was something else. But it had been Ray's experience that, no matter how pretty the floats, no matter how good the bands, kids everywhere always liked the little Shriner cars best of all. He and his fellow drivers would be goddam celebrities for a day.

As much as Ray was looking forward to the parade, the week of partying in the city was going to be even better. Ray and his compadres had already been dancing at a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach and had big plans for the days ahead. He'd be down to his last dollar by the time he boarded that plane for home. "Only live once," Ray added with a wink.

John had not gotten a word in since introducing himself. But that was fine. He was just as happy to nurse his beer and let Big Ray (as the man sometimes referred to himself) tell his stories. And he had a lot of them. Ray was a gifted raconteur, a master of blending conflict, suspense, and a large dose of self-deprecating humour to achieve a truly gripping tale. But after the first few, John detected a pattern. Ray's stories all had the same basic format. Ray would have some "cracker" of an idea that became a project. Then some "ignorant hard-on" would interfere, try to stop him or worse, take over, and then there'd be the inevitable confrontation, usually an argument, but sometimes a couple of punches were thrown. Ray always came out on top. (They were Ray's stories, after all.) And to John's great amusement, the stories always ended the same way, with the same punchy line that Ray used as an exclamation point, both to let the listener know the story was over and to remind them that Ray had, once again, emerged victorious.

"So I told that jackass, "Ya mess with the bull, ya get the horns!""

Thinking back, John decided that there'd been at least two occasions since he'd begun working with Sherlock that he really would have enjoyed saying that line himself, times when he'd bested an overconfident criminal, often a dim-witted gorilla who'd underestimated John based on his small stature and quiet demeanor. Yes, John decided, when he got back to London he would definitely make that phrase his own. Or perhaps he'd invent another one very much like it. He'd have to think on it.

Ray continued to tell stories, his arm now around John, his eyes lighting up whenever John gave any sign of appreciation. He was a bit of a blowhard, but John also found Ray to be gracious in his hospitality and, truthfully, could not see much of the pugnacious and posturing hero of the stories in the man telling them.

At some point, Ray felt the need to pause his oration to take a drink. He was about to start up again when a look of realization crossed his face.

"Son of a bitch, John. You must think I was raised in a barn, sittin' hear yammerin' away. Christ, I ain't even asked where you're from. I'm guessin' it sure as hell ain't New York City. No, don't tell me. You're from Ireland. Am I right?"

"Close. England."

"Oh, yeah, sure, like that James Bond guy…Sean Connery!" another Shriner joined in.

"Well, no, he's Scottish," John said patiently. "I'm more like the other Bond, Roger Moore."

"Oh, English—like Prince Charles!" said still another. All five Shriners were now gathered around John in a semicircle of bright eyes, old jovial faces, and red fezzes.

"I'd say more like Roger Moore," John insisted.

Why John thought it was important that these guys identified him with the suave Bond actor rather than the decidedly less glamorous prince, he didn't know. Maybe he missed the style and grace that came with having Sherlock by his side and needed to compensate. He never realized before what a beautiful accessory Sherlock was. John had always thought that Sherlock made him look dull by comparison, but now that he was without him he knew this was not true. Sherlock's glamorous aura enveloped him, included him, rubbed off on him somehow, and now, out on his own in a big foreign city, John keenly missed that shine.

* * *

><p>At sunup Sherlock was awakened by the feel of four small paws landing softly on his stomach. Johnny, looking knackered but happy, started on his long and, to Sherlock, slightly vulgar grooming ritual. Sherlock decided he'd rather not watch, and moved Johnny to his chair while he went to the kitchen to fetch him some milk. He was pleased the cat had decided to return to him and wanted to reinforce this behavior with a reward. But by the time he'd returned, Johnny was sound asleep. The tip of Johnny's ear showed a fresh scratch, but otherwise his little street fighter was untouched.<p>

"So you fought off at least one rival I see," Sherlock said with admiration.

Unable to resist, Sherlock stroked the sleeping cat. Johnny yawned and rolled over exposing his belly, slightly rounded and covered with short silky fur. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then very gently moved his hand along the length of the cat's abdomen. The feeling of warmth and trust that radiated up though his fingers was overwhelming.

"How marvelous," he thought, "So different from people. I could never do this with a human."

Sherlock quickly realized he wouldn't enjoy touching strangers anyway. But John, as usual, was another case entirely. Sherlock thought about how it would be so nice to be able to sit with John on the couch while they watched telly or worked on their laptops and casually stroke John's hair, maybe around his ear, even snuggle up close with his arm around him so they would share that feeling of touching something warm and alive. But John, as wonderful and tolerant as he was, was still human, and would likely suspect these gestures contained hidden meanings. Knowing Sherlock as he did, John wouldn't suspect the usual, that they were some kind of foreplay, but rather that Sherlock was manipulating him to do something, or perhaps experimenting on him. For Johnny, a cat, Sherlock's caresses were just that, gentle touches, close and warm and reassuring, a blissful moment of connection and nothing more.

"Damn humans and their subtext."

Sherlock was well aware of the irony in this thought, as reading the subtext in human behavior was, in fact, his stock and trade. That didn't make him feel better about the fact that the time was soon approaching when John would come and Johnny would go, and with him the joy of petting a soft, plump furry tummy.

But, perhaps, if he put his mind to it, Sherlock thought, he could find a way to remedy this problem. He began to wonder just how he would go about convincing John to switch from wearing jumpers made of traditional English worsted wool to something softer, Angora perhaps. That, of course, would be the easy part. Getting John to wear them two sizes smaller so that the material clung to his torso like it was his own pelt would be the far greater challenge. The problem was intriguing. So, as Sherlock went about his day, conducting experiments in the kitchen, taking Johnny on "stakeouts", and crank texting various former executives of News of the World, he daydreamed about various ways he could contrive to spend late evenings, reading or working on his laptop, all the while contentedly stroking sleeping John's soft Angora-clad tummy.


	5. True to His Nature

**Title:** Johnny Cat, Chapter 5: True to His Nature

**Rating: **PG

**Characters:** John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson. OCs: a cat named Johnny, Ray, Rhonda, Ines, Marisol, and Sylvia

**Warnings:** None.

**Word Count:** This chapter: almost 4,900. Complete Story: just over 24,000.

**Summary:** Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of two friendships.

**Beta: **IShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.

**Author's Notes**: This story is complete. I will be posting a new chapter every three days.

**Johnny Cat**

**Chapter 5: True to His Nature**

John woke up hung-over but happy. The last thing he remembered about that night on the rooftop bar was Ray and his friends leaving with a group of three very tall, very elegant ladies who, just before closing time, had sauntered into the bar like a pride of hungry lionesses.

Lively and flirtatious, the Amazons had utterly enchanted the Shriners who had then invited them to go dancing at a favorite Cuban nightclub. John had briefly considered joining them, but it had been late and the beer had made him sleepy. Besides, he's had a conference to attend the next morning and so, when Ray invited him, "not taking no for an answer," John had politely declined. As he'd finished his beer and watched Ray and company head, laughing, for the elevator, John had considered that, perhaps, he should point out to Ray the rather prominent Adam's apples on his new-found dance partners. In the end he'd decided against it. John knew that, despite their outward appearance, Ray and his mates were no strangers to life in the big city and were quite capable of taking care of themselves. Besides, they'd figure it out, eventually.

Now giggling to himself alone in his room, John wondered whether that night would ever make it into Ray's "Ya mess with the bull, ya get the horn" repertoire of stories. John guessed not.

After a shower and a few cups of flavorless tea, John was ready to hit the conference. There were a couple of lectures he really wanted to hear, but other than that, he wasn't very enthused. Besides, there was the unpleasant possibility he'd run into Rhonda or some of the other people who had witnessed their "misunderstanding" in the bar.

John grimaced, then laughed, then grimaced again as he remembered all the painful details of that encounter. He knew he ought to be used to it by now. Because since moving in with Sherlock, the occasional awkward moment (and sometimes outright humiliation) had become a regular part of his dating routine. In fact John could fill a very long, sad, and humorous book about the many ways Sherlock had managed to embarrass him on dates, often sabotaging any chance of a follow-up. Why the incident with Rhonda had occurred, with Sherlock an ocean away, was an issue John chose not to examine for the moment as the answer would likely be complicated and a little disturbing. Then again, one flirtation gone wrong was nothing to get upset about. Of course, if he made a habit of taking over Sherlock's role of being his love life's worst enemy, John would have no choice but to take up the issue with his therapist. Maybe. God, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The whole incident with Rhonda aside, John was simply done, ready to go home, back to London and his childish, self-absorbed, manipulative, yet adored friend and flatmate whom he missed more and more with each passing hour. But of course John could not, would not, shirk his obligation. He was a guest of the committee, of Dr. Shapiro, and it was his duty to attend. And so he would. None the less, on his way out of his room, John picked up his detective novel and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat; just on the odd chance there'd be some down time. And, given his current mood, he really hoped there would be.

* * *

><p>It was Wednesday and Mrs. Hudson decided she would run upstairs to ask the boys whether they needed any groceries. She needed a few things herself and was happy to save them the trip.<p>

The night before she had heard some rather odd noises coming from Sherlock and Dr. Watson's flat, confusing sounds that she couldn't quite place as they weren't quite angry yells (a quarrel) or moans of pain (an accident) but rather something in between. But the sounds hadn't lasted long, and since no one had stormed off down the stairs and no one had required an ambulance, she decided that, perhaps, the sounds had been of a romantic nature and, thus, were best left uninvestigated.

Not wanting to disturb her "shy ones" (as Mrs. Turner called them) just in case they were still "occupied", Mrs. Hudson tiptoed quietly up the stairs. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass anyone, not least of all herself. As she approached their door she heard Sherlock talking, not using that pedantic tone of his (so he wasn't working) but a tone that was rich and ingratiating; a personal matter then. She paused a moment to listen, not to eavesdrop (heavens no) but just to be sure she wasn't interrupting at a bad time.

If asked, Sherlock would have said that it _was_ a bad time; for at that moment he was fully engrossed in a journal article, a scintillating piece about the beautifully complex and much maligned relationship between corpses and blowflies. He was reclining on the sofa, so engaged, when Johnny jumped up to join him. Eyes never leaving the page, Sherlock used his free hand to deftly scoop up the small cat, who'd landed on his lap, and relocated him higher on his chest, just in case the cheeky miscreant decided to start "making biscuits" again with those sharp claws.

Having settled into his new position, Johnny looked his friend squarely in the eye before starting into his grooming regime. A stickler for routine, he began, as always, by licking his paw and rubbing it in brisk circles across his face. He then worked his way lower, pulling and preening his tawny fur with long vigorous strokes, until he reached his nether regions. Here the cat stayed a good long time, cleaning and smoothing and stroking, legs inelegantly raised and splayed, eyes closed in contentment. Sherlock forgot all about blowflies as he looked on in amazement, marveling at the high degree of flexibility demonstrated in this unapologetically hedonistic display.

After a good ten minutes, the show was over. Johnny had finished with his lusty libations, and so Sherlock returned his attention to his journal. It was Johnny's habit to take a nap after a "bathe", so it was understandable that the detective was taken by surprise when the little cat walked right up to his face and, in what Sherlock could only guess was a gesture of feline camaraderie, began licking his mouth with his rough, moist tongue. Shocked and appalled, Sherlock bolted upright. He was having none of that. Holding the little transgressor up at eye level to be sure it was paying attention, Sherlock imitated the tone his old headmaster had always used when dressing down a boy; loud and firm.

"We both know where that clever little tongue of yours has been, Johnny, and until you improve your oral hygiene, considerably, you will keep it out of my mouth. Understood?"

He then transferred Johnny to his usual chair and gave him the, "What am I going to do with you?" look John gave him from time to time. Johnny, unimpressed, curled up to sleep.

Mrs. Hudson was mortified at what she had overheard. But, in truth, she was also a little pleased. Except for that curious commotion they'd made night before (which, in light of what she'd just overheard, was clearly of a romantic nature) Sherlock and his doctor were usually so quiet and discrete that she worried. The only noises she ever heard were footfalls and the rare thump or crash when Sherlock's experiments went awry. Her own marriage may not have been a stellar example, but Mrs. Hudson knew the sounds of a happy, healthy relationship when she heard them. She was also glad that Sherlock felt secure enough to make some rules about those little issues that came up in a relationship—oral hygiene could be overlooked once or twice in the blind passion of those early days, but addressing an issue like that now would help ensure that the romance would stay strong and the union would last. As everyone knows, petty grievances, left unaddressed, had a way of trying one's nerves.

Quietly Mrs. Hudson tiptoed back down the stairs to get her purse and her shopping list. She decided she'd pick up a nice pack of digestives for the boys and a pair of toothbrushes too. If they asked about the toothbrushes, she'd just explain that Tesco was having a sale. A few white lies are always necessary in greasing the skids. It was the least she could do to help her boys.

* * *

><p>One lecture down and one to go. John headed to the courtesy buffet to find something light, an apple perhaps. But all that was left were some rich looking cheese Danish topped with colorful chunks, fruit most likely, but John found it hard to identify the particular varieties as they'd absorbed so much heavy syrup that they now sat bloated and bleached, half hidden beneath a sugary glaze. With a small sigh of disappointment John took the one most closely resembling cherry, poured himself a tall cup of coffee, and set off to find a quiet place to read his book. The second lecture was not until 3:00 PM, so he had plenty of time.<p>

The hotel had a large number of meeting rooms, and it didn't take long for John to find empty one with a comfortable chair. Happy to have escaped the noisy bustle of the conference, John sat down and began to read. He was half way through, at the point where the hero detective was having trouble convincing the plodding, "by the book" police inspector of his account of the murders, partly because the hero, himself, was a suspect. "Dull; predictable," thought John. Yet somehow, despite the banal storyline, he found the adventure of the brilliant but misunderstood gumshoe to be surprisingly comforting, a reminder of the life he'd left back in London; his real life, while he passed one last day living what seemed more and more like someone else's.

As he reached the end of the chapter, John suddenly became aware that he was no longer alone. For sitting in a tight circle in the opposite corner of the room were three deeply tanned, dark-eyed young women talking quietly amongst themselves. Judging by their nametags, they too were conference refugees. John couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed in himself, as he took prided in his ability to keep tabs on all important changes in his environs, both as a trained soldier and as an avid appreciator of the fairer sex. But never one to let his ego get in the way of an opportunity, John quickly recovered and set about observing the women as nonchalantly as possible from behind his book.

As it turned out they were medical students; first years most likely, as they were quizzing each other on elements of human anatomy. They reminded John of some of the women he'd know long ago when he, himself, had been a student; bright young things as adept at memorizing a metabolic cascade during a late night study session as they were at charming the pants off him, quite literally, in the wee hours of the morning that followed. Those memories, still powerful after all those years, brought an involuntary flicker of a smile to John's lips and a low purr of satisfaction down in his throat. And if he'd had a tail it would have twitched.

As John watched, the tallest of the three twisted her long dark hair around her finger as she tried to recall the names of the bones in the foot. She listed the medial, intermediate, and lateral cuneiform before stopping with a weak smile and a shrug. Silence ensued: apparently none of the others could help. John could and so he did, happy for the excuse to talk to such a charming assembly of feminine pulchritude.

"The cuboid's next. Then the navicular, the talus, and the calcaneous."

The response was all that he'd hoped. Three sets of eyes turned his way. Three lipsticked smiles beamed. And then the happy chorus began, so sweet and exuberant, it was, indeed, music to John's ears.

"Nicely done! Thank you," said the tall one, whose broad grin brought about a charming display of dimples.

"Care to join us? We could use your help," said her friend, the one with the lovely caramel-coloured eyes that glinted mischievously from behind her dark, half-tamed fringe.

"Yes, please! We all forgot to bring our textbooks," said the third, a petite pixie-faced thing with a nose stud and large hoop earrings. Chin raised in bold invitation, she casually swept her hair back from her face as she added, "Besides, our book doesn't have that lovely accent."

As if on cue Dimples recited, "Cubouid, navicular, talus, calaneous. See? I remember them now. It _must _be your accent that made the difference." The way she twirled the toe of her black pump as she spoke had a way of drawing John's gaze so that it followed her length of long, shapely leg upward until it disappeared beneath the thick fabric of her knee-length skirt. John caught himself staring a second too long and quickly blinked his mind back into focus.

His mission, thus presented, was blissfully clear. The three of them were so grateful and were asking so nicely, how could John refuse to help? And besides, wasn't it the duty of an established physician like himself to lend a hand to the next wave of aspiring medical professionals? As he rose from his chair and made his way across the room, John could feel his chest fill with the happy anticipation of being useful and, even better, spending time in the company of three decidedly attractive young women.

If Sherlock had been in the room at that moment, he would have rolled his eyes in feigned disgust while chuckling inwardly with amusement at the familiar scene. For as bright and observant as John was about so much, the doctor was completely unaware of just how strongly the fairer sex affected him. One whiff of pheromone was like throwing a switch, and all of John's energy and focus would immediately train on the subject of interest. And while John never lost his natural reserved, his always decorous manner, around a pretty woman his every word, his every gesture was wrapped in an aura of desire. He became like a taught violin string waiting to be bowed.

According to Sherlock, the most telltale sign was John's walk. Around an attractive female, John's brisk gate, which usually sprang lightly from his calves, would begin to flow more slowly, smoothly, and powerfully from his hips, giving the modest doctor the smallest hint of a swagger; a glimpse, perhaps, of the highly capable soldier hidden within. It was that leisurely strut that always told Sherlock when there was a real threat of John becoming, inconveniently, indisposed.

For his part, John had no idea that he was walking any differently as he crossed the meeting room floor that day. All he knew was that, at that moment, he held in rapt attention three sets of dark, alluring eyes. And that was good, very good.

John took the empty chair offered and, looking into the three eager faces before him, said in his most warm and gracious tone, "So, how may I be of assistance?"

There was a brief pause, only a few seconds, during which the women, exchanging glances, seemed to be talking over their answer telepathically.

"You could help us review the thorax and vertebral column, if it's not too much trouble, Doctor…?" It was the smallest and, it seemed, the boldest of the three who spoke, looking up at him with studied coyness from beneath her lashes.

"No trouble at all. And it's John, John Watson," he said offering a boyishly lopsided smile and extending his hand to each in turn. He could not help but note the softness of their skin, the bold hues of their lacquered nails, and the beautifully filigreed silver rings that bedecked their slender fingers. _How absolutely lovely_, he thought as a new wave of hormones raced madly about his body, stirring his blood, adjusting his priorities, and lighting up the deepest, most primal pleasure centers of his brain.

Over the next hour John got to know his new acquaintances: Marisol, Ines, and Sylvia. He'd been right; they were first year medical students. Apparently they'd skipped classes in order to attend a lecture given by one of their professors. Marisol and Ines were locals, both from the borough of Queens. Brash little Sylvia was from San Diego. "Surfer girl," the other two mocked with affection. As they chatted, reviewing anatomy and discussing the trials and tribulations of medical school, John found all three of them to be charming, flirtatious, and, yes, very bright. In fact when they told John that, no, there was no pending anatomy exam, no exam of any kind, in fact, as the school's spring break was to begin the following day, he began to suspect that the whole study session had been a clever ruse to get his attention and lure him away from his book. That idea, he found, pleased him very much.

At noon Marisol's cousin Oscar picked them up in his vintage Corolla, and the five of them went to lunch at a favorite cheap eats place, Ray's Mango, a glorified hotdog stand that was, they informed him, a popular destination for poor students, taxi drivers, and the after-hours bar crowd.

The ride was harrowing; that is to say John wouldn't have missed it for the world. Room in the back seat was limited, so John agreed, out of necessity, to sit with Sylvia, the smallest, on his lap. Initially he'd found this arrangement pleasant and rather relaxing as she was light and her hair, which swished gently against his face at every turn, smelled like tropical flowers. However, the tranquil atmosphere inside the car abruptly changed when a favorite song came over the radio, and all at once the back seat became a roiling sea of shimmying chests and gyrating hips. To both John's delight and chagrin, Sylvia, the little surfer girl, was (how to put it?) riding a wave of Salsa over his lap. Even with the barrier of their winter coats between them, her lithe swimmer's body was making a highly provocative, if unintentional, assault on John's groin. It was not long before the combination of the pounding rhythm, their rising body heat, and the relentless press of Sylvia's dancing hips began to erode John's proper reserve. Desperate to keep his state of arousal at a socially acceptable level, John engaged his strongest defense, a tried and true method he'd used to distract himself under similar, if not identical, circumstances. Starting with "drooling severed head", John silently began to recite every last disgusting item Sherlock had ever brought into their flat. It was a long list and he was only half way through when the car pulled up in front of their destination and Oscar, mercifully, silenced the radio.

Trying to find a parking spot would have been futile, so Sylvia was sent out for the food while the rest of them drove time-killing circles around the block. Apparently lunch, like everything else in New York, was to be enjoyed on-the-go.

From his long time spent dining with his fellow soldiers in Afghanistan, John had thought he'd heard them all; every single bawdy, double entendre, phallic hotdog joke. He was wrong. Ines, Marisol, and Sylvia had quite a repertoire, and seemed to delight in making John fidget and blush like a schoolboy as they suggestively devoured their lunch. It wasn't that their jokes were particularly crude; in fact most were quite funny and clever. It was just that, coming out of the pretty mouths of such delicate looking creatures, John found himself newly thin-skinned. It didn't help that impish Sylvia, again perched on his lap, giggled in body-shaking fits of laughter at his reactions; that is, when she wasn't sucking down her fruity drink in long, slow pulls, sending John's eyes fleeing in panic to the refuge of the floormats. Even Oscar, a rawboned youth of eighteen, was amused and laughed as he caught John's uneasy expression in the rearview mirror.

"Careful you don't choke," was John all could offer as a defense as Ines smirked and licked her lips before taking yet another obscenely large bite of her condiment-laden delicacy.

John was so distracted that it wasn't until the car had stopped in front of a small brick house in a residential neighborhood that he realized he wasn't getting back to the conference or his hotel any time soon.

"I thought…I thought you were going back to class. I thought you were dropping me back at the conference," he stammered as everyone piled out. Somehow he had missed the moment when they'd all decided to skip school for the rest of the day and hang out at Marisol's house.

"Oh, John, don't tell me there's something you'd rather do than hang out with us this afternoon," said Ines, her eyes wide with innocence. Not waiting for an answer, she affectionately (or was it possessively?) took John's arm and led him up the walkway.

"Well, there was that lecture at three, but…." John's voice trailed off in a smile. All he could think of as he approached the door, accompanied by three very attractive, very self-assured young women was, "Could be dangerous." Really, there was no choice. He went inside.

The afternoon at the house was like a repeat of the car ride with the three young women flirting, and teasing, and competing with one another to see who could get the best reaction and the most attention from their English guest. Apparently Marisol's parents were off on vacation and so wouldn't be bothered by their little party. Oscar put on some music, and there was some beer and some dancing. The women were impressed at how quickly John picked up the steps of the cumbia, a dizzying Latin American swing dance fueled by the fluttering pulse of an accordion. It wasn't long before he and Oscar were weaving and twirling their three eager partners in giddy turns about the living room.

For the most part the three women were content to share and didn't seem to mind dancing with their "hermano" Oscar or sitting on the couch while waiting their turn in John's arms. There came, however, a few tense moments when Sylvia refused to let Ines cut in, at which time John excused himself to find the WC while the two of them sorted out their differences in loud, impassioned Spanish. The argument became a three way affair when Sylvia and Ines began angrily questioning Marisol after seeing her walk John past the door of the nearby powder room and up the stairs on a mission of suspicious intent. To John's ears the voices that came through the upstairs bathroom wall sounded quite upset, and he began to wonder whether he should leave. But by the time he rejoined them in the living room, the three friends were bunched together on the couch, drinking bottled water and laughing as they watched Oscar demonstrate his most flamboyant steps.

As afternoon blurred happily into evening, Marisol brought out platters of food prepared and left by her mother, a fabulous cook as it turned out. As they ate, John told a couple of war stories, the most humorous in his repertoire, before trying his best to fill them in on their main interest, London's club scene. Even though he knew that his hosts would be amazed and impressed by his work with Sherlock, on that subject John kept quiet. Sherlock alone was hard enough to explain, and John always found it best to let their complicated (and easily misconstrued) relationship go unmentioned, especially around women he fancied.

The conversation had wound down, and John was just getting ready to say that he needed to be heading back to his hotel to pack for his return trip to London, when Marisol made a surprising announcement. Apparently Sylvia was to be flying home to San Diego that very evening, and it was now time to leave for the airport if she were going to make her 7:00 fight.

Surprised but unfazed by this sudden change in plan, John said he'd call a cab. The women, however, wouldn't hear of it. Reaching up, little Sylvia slid two delicate fingers along John's neck and over his carotid artery. Her eyes twinkled as she solemnly pronounced her medical opinion, that John was still warm from dancing and so should not be subjected to the cold, impersonal backseat of a cab. John, laughing, started to protest, saying that, while he appreciated her concern, he'd be perfectly fine taking a cab. But this sentence went unfinished and John's train of thought was abruptly derailed as Marisol, who'd been helping him into his coat, took it upon herself to use her soft clever hands to straighten the collar of his shirt. John stifled a moan and shivered at the unexpected sensation of her warm fingers sweeping, nape to collar bone, across his skin. And before he could regain his equilibrium, he was thrown again, as Ines began carefully wrapping her own colorful hand-knit scarf about his neck, her warm breath wafting over John's cheek in soft, intimate puffs. She was so close, and she was smiling, and John found himself wanting to circle his finger about the enticing pucker of her dimple. Stepping back, Ines gave John (and her handiwork) a long sweeping look of approval. John found her gaze, a mix of admiration and conquest, to be intoxicating. Before he knew it, cousin Oscar was off, walking the few blocks to his house, while John and the three dark-eyed enchantresses were back in the Corolla, Marisol behind the wheel, merging fearlessly into heavy the evening traffic.

The departure time of Sylvia's plane was delayed. Then it was delayed again. John and his companions decided to kill time in bar near the airport. Marisol, the driver, ordered a soda. Sylvia and Ines, however, decided that that evening's end-of-term celebration called for something stronger. As small and delicate as they looked, these young med students had a surprising tolerance for alcohol, and John was glad that, after two quick shots of Mescal (which his "when in Rome" code of etiquette dictated he match) Sylvia and Ines decided to switch to coffee. When finally it was time to go, John was both slightly buzzed and very, very alert.

They parked and walked Sylvia to security. John stood back politely as Sylvia and her two friends embraced and said their goodbyes. When it was his turn, John leaned in, planted a chaste on kiss her cheek and enclosed her small frame in an unmistakably avuncular hug. But just as he was pulling away, about to wish Sylvia success in her studies, John was caught by surprise; for he suddenly became aware that one of Sylvia's hands had found its way into his back pocket and was engaged in what could only be called a clandestine grope. Gasping in response, John was surprised again when Sylvia leaned in quickly, using the opportunity to capture a very bold open-mouth kiss. It was long and slow and with enough tongue that John could taste not only that evening's coffee and Mescal but also the sweet mango drink she'd had for lunch, and possibly even the orange juice she'd had for breakfast.

"That's my thanks for the anatomy lesson, Dr. Watson," Sylvia said with a beguiling elfin grin when she finally released him. John, the drum of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, could barely hear his own sincere reply;"You're very welcome." Confused, a little stunned, but all-in-all quite happy with the turn of events, he was not really sure what to make of what had just happened. For, while it could have been his imagination, John though he saw Sylvia flash an "I told you I'd do it" look in the direction of Marisol and Ines who were now standing, heads together, giggling and whispering in excitement.

Still awash with that heady mix of joy, lust, and adrenaline, John watched as Sylvia's small form entered the security gate and then disappeared amongst the throngs of fellow travelers. It was only then, when she was out of sight, that John's mood began to deflate as the inevitable sense of loss, of an opportunity missed, settled in. John would not discover the note in his pocket, the one with Sylvia's phone number, until two days later when he was back in London doing laundry.

During the drive back to the city and his hotel, John, alone in the back seat, had plenty of time to think about how much he'd enjoyed his last day in New York. Yes, he'd been overmatched, and the three twenty-something med students had sported with him, had always had the upper hand. But he hadn't really minded. If that was the price for being surrounded by so much life and beauty, he was more than willing to pay it.


	6. The Things I Do For You

**Title:** Johnny Cat, Chapter 6: The Things I Do For You

**Rating: **PG

**Characters:** John, Sherlock, a cat named Johnny (OC), Yulia (OC)

**Warnings:** None.

**Word Count:** This chapter: almost 4,300. Complete Story: just over 24,000.

**Summary:** Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of two friendships.

**Beta: **IShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.

**Author's Notes**: This story is complete. I will be posting a new chapter every three days.

**Johnny Cat**

**Chapter 6: The Things I Do For You**

John had remembered to checked in online twenty-three hours in advance of his departure time. Unfortunately, so had everyone else. How every single other passenger on that plane had managed to book a seat before his computer had even loaded the necessary page was beyond him. "They must all be New Yorkers," thought John, ruefully. During his brief stay, he'd found that the inhabitants of that fair city were not ones to let the grass grow.

John had gotten the very last available seat; a middle seat at the very back in front of the loo. The thought of sitting for hours, hemmed in by a cue of people waiting to use the facilities, having no window to lean against and no place to stretch his legs, was disheartening. Still, John could not help but smile as he remembered how much Sherlock loved sitting in the last row and how he'd kept John amused on a choppy flight to Rome by deducing the surprising commonalities among passengers whose only obvious connections were that flight and the call of nature. Sherlock was not an easy traveler—being forced to keep within the bounds of polite, socially acceptable behavior for long periods made him restless and prone to outbursts of impatience—but he also had a wonderful way of turning moments John usually found dull or inconvenient into delightful challenges. Being on his own, John would have to make do. At least he had his book.

John was just about to buzz the flight attendant for a pillow when a woman, heavily laden with a baby and a large carryon bag, came trudging down the aisle. She stopped next to John and gestured, indicating that the seat next to John was hers. (Asking would have been useless as nothing could be heard over the din of her baby's crying.) Fortunately for John, there was an unoccupied seat in the row immediately in front of him. Unfortunately, there was no time in which to claim it as just then the fasten seatbelt sign flashed and the flight crew scurried off to strap themselves in for takeoff. Wedge into a middle seat, an enormously obese man (already fast asleep) to his right, a howling baby to his left, John was already weary of the trip and the plane hadn't even left the ground.

The baby, a five-month-old boy, had cried nonstop for over an hour and was showing no sign of letting up. John could feel tension radiating off his fellow passengers, and his own neck muscles were so tightly drawn they felt ready to snap. The mother had tried all the tricks, bouncing, singing, a bottle of formula, a favorite toy, but nothing had worked. With a sigh of acceptance she pulled out a set of car keys (John recognized the BMW logo) and offered them to her squalling child. The boy's face instantly lit up with happy recognition. Eagerly he snatch up the keys, popped the fob into his mouth, and began vigorously gumming and sucking. In less than a minute, the happy tot was sound asleep. John could feel the entire plane relax with a communal sigh of relief. He gave the mother a sympathetic smile.

"He's got colic, you know," she said as she fished a lipstick from her bag. "He usually doesn't calm down this quickly. Would you mind holding him while I go to the restroom?"

"My pleasure," John said. He knew that colic took a toll on mothers. She could probably do with a bit of alone time, no matter how brief.

The sleeping boy settled easily into Johns arms. The baby's mother all but skipped to the loo.

Maybe it was the drone of the engines or the restful feel of the small warm body asleep against his or the fact that he'd had only five hours of sleep the night before, but John found himself closing his eyes to rest them, just for a minute.

He awoke with a start from a dream he couldn't quite remember but that had involved a rock in a tide pool and an increasingly clingy starfish. John looked down and there was the baby, asleep, safe and sound, but far from still. For despite the barrier of window-check cotton twill, the tenacious youngster had managed to latch on to the small but highly sensitive bud that was John's left nipple. By the damp stain on his shirt, John could tell that the little fellow had been at it for quite a while. Thankfully, it appeared that no one else had noticed his predicament.

John worked his pinky finger in carefully and managed to release the baby's hold. Instantly the boy's eyes flashed open and his face crinkled up in displeasure. Again he split the air with his ear-curdling cries. Groan of annoyance and "God, not again" rang out from the surrounding seats. John stood, squalling baby in his arms, and looked about but could not see the mother anywhere. Nor could he see her bag of tricks. Luckily, he had a few tricks of his own, picked up from various nurses he'd worked with over the years. Looking every bit the experienced father, John dipped his little finger into his own cup of apple juice and popped it into the baby's open mouth. (His finger, John reasoned, was no dirtier than that key fob.) The boy seemed to consider the substitution for a moment before deciding that the sweet finger would do. In no time at all, the little fellow was back asleep. All the while his small sucking mouth kept a tight hold on its new soother. John realized too late that his book lay on the floor, well out of reach.

The flight was nearly over, and John was really beginning to worry that something bad had happened to the baby's mother. But minutes before touchdown, like some kind of cruel levitation trick, there she was, appearing as if by magic, rising up before his eyes from the "unoccupied" seat. After a yawn and a stretch, looking well-rested (and not a bit guilty about it) she returned to her original seat. John stared in disbelief as the woman proceeded to thank him for holding her child, offering up not one word of explanation or apology for her six hour visit to the WC. Outraged, John opened his mouth to tell her just what he thought of her little disappearing act, but was cut off when the baby woke up and, again, began to cry.

"I'm sorry that he spilled your drink," the mother said, indicating the wet spot on John's shirt as she shook up a fresh bottle of formula.

"You. May. Want. To. Nurse. Him." John suggested through clenched teeth as he handed over the squirming, screaming bundle of misery. Despite his annoyance with the mother, he was going to do whatever was necessary to keep that baby quiet.

"Oh, he's always been on a bottle. Never could get the little guy to latch on," she explained, shaking her head with sad acceptance as she tried to finesse the nipple into the baby's reluctant mouth.

John's own nipple, still throbbing, told him that she probably hadn't tried very hard, but he said nothing, at least not out loud. In his head he was cursing a blue streak.

The next thing he knew the plane had touched down. John blew out a long breath—he had survived. But as he scrambled to collect his belongings it dawned on him; seven hour on a plane and he'd not gotten to read a single page of his book. A raw deal, indeed!

* * *

><p>John was due to return home that evening and the flat was a mess. Sardine tins were piled high on the kitchen counter and dirty dishes overflowed the sink. The rugs, too, were in a sad state, dusted with a fine layer of dun-colored cat hair and spotted in several places from the occasions when Sherlock had been too preoccupied to observe Johnny's "stakeout signals", and the cat had decided to improvise.<p>

Sherlock knew that John would not appreciate coming home to anything more than Sherlock's usual expansive clutter, but that wasn't his main concern. His main concern was Johnny. For reasons he couldn't say, Sherlock was not yet ready to share his experience with cat with anyone else, not even John. There was only one thing to be done.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted. No answer. He tried again. Nothing.

His plan was not actually to ask her to clean, but rather to invite her up on another pretense expecting that, when she saw the mess and found out that John was away, she'd volunteer to help (well, really, to clean and tidy everything herself). But when she didn't answer, Sherlock had to resort to his backup plan. He hated the idea of calling in this particular favor, but this was an emergency.

Yulia was Mycroft's maid. That Mycroft had her in to clean his house twice a week was proof of both her skills as a housecleaner and her extreme loyalty to his brother. Mycroft had recommended her services to Sherlock before, had even had offered to pay, but Sherlock had declined knowing that, along with cleaning, Yulia would also be reporting back on what she'd found in the flat. This is why Sherlock had always refused her services. Baker Street was the one place partially obscured from Mycroft's prying gaze, and Sherlock wanted to keep it that way.

Just what did Mycroft, that overbearing busybody, want to know? Well, ostensibly all he cared about were things that had to do with Sherlock's safety and wellbeing, things such as the nature of Sherlock's experiments (risky?), the kinds of weapons he kept (legal?), the types cases he was working on (dangerous, Bureau related?) as well as a host of more personal issues, useless trivia such as what and how often Sherlock ate. But Sherlock knew, despite Mycroft's words to the contrary, that his brother would just love for Yulia to learn something that would help "encourage" Sherlock to "see his point of view" when they locked horns, which was often.

Of course before Yulia arrived Sherlock would take precautions. It would be easy enough to tuck away the sensitive documents, the banned substances, and the weapons. Yulia could pry all she wanted—she would find nothing. But all the rest, the countless number of personal items that he used every day were another matter. His life was on full display at Baker Street for even the most obtuse agent to see, and there was no hiding it. And while Sherlock preferred to keep Mycroft mostly in the dark as to how he lived when the door was closed, he was willing to give him this one peek in exchange for a clean flat. There was, in fact, just one matter that Sherlock was absolutely determined to keep private, and that was his relationship with Dr. John Watson.

Sherlock had other friends, well, colleagues actually, but no one like John. No one even came close. John was his and he was John's, and what they shared, their unorthodox and very personal form of symbiosis, was nobody's damned business, especially not Mycroft's.

Unfortunately Yulia was by far his best option. Meticulously vetted by his brother, she was absolutely the safest choice. Anyone else would be a risk as Sherlock had several enemies who would just love an opportunity to have an agent, posing as a maid, case his domicile. And as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, Mycroft, in his own irritating way, was always looking out for him.

So, that was that. Sherlock had made his decision. The flat had to be cleaned, and Mycroft's domestic-slash-agent would do it.

Sherlock was not surprised that Yulia turned out to be young, blonde, and drop-dead gorgeous. The women who worked for Mycroft (he employed mostly women) although varied in age and appearance, were all stunning and of above average intelligence. It was likely that housecleaning was largely a cover, and that Yulia was one of several _irregular_ agents that Mycroft employed for his off the books jobs. Her nails were manicured short but impeccably, and Sherlock could easily picture those graceful fingers wrapped around the handle of an attaché case or even a small fire-arm when Mycroft sent her on more challenging missions.

Although her English was flawless, Sherlock deduced that Yulia was originally from the Ukraine. Still, the only traces of her country of origin were the brightly colored scarf, tied in the traditional "babushka" to cover her hair, and the silver Ukrainian Orthodox cross pendent that hung from her neck.

Sherlock took no pains to hide Johnny. Evidence of the cat was everywhere and was, in fact, the main reason it needed cleaning so badly.

The moment Yulia saw the dapper little cat she dropped her supplies, scooped him up, and buried her face in his soft fur. Johnny purred with pleasure and, in a display of natural charm, softly laid his paw on her cheek. Sherlock found the resulting noise that escaped Yulia's mouth to be very familiar. Somewhere between a hum and a moan, the sound was identical to the quiet reflexive exhalation Sherlock often heard women make upon meeting John Watson for the first time.

Sherlock knew that John was completely unaware of both that sound and the general effect he had on the female population, and he had no intention of enlightening him. Long ago Sherlock had determined that those sounds meant trouble, time John would spend away on dates where he was decidedly less available for what really mattered, Sherlock's work. Hearing Yulia's reaction reminded Sherlock that it was important that she never meet Johnny's human counterpart—the amount of trouble such an entanglement would produce was incalculable. But Yulia's affection for the cat, on the other hand, might prove useful in Sherlock's battle for privacy.

"He's quite a handful," Sherlock began in his best imitation of polite conversation. "Leaves hair all over and simply delights in wreaking havoc. In fact, his favorite game is batting sardine tins off the counter and across the floor until he's managed to lodge them beneath the refrigerator."

Sherlock now tried for that look, the mix of pretend exasperation and mild amusement he'd seen on the faces of animal lovers when they gave accounts of their naughty pets' misdeeds. In fact it had been Sherlock himself who had invented the game and taught it to the cat after seeing Johnny accidentally knock a tin off of the counter and bat it across the floor in his attempt to lick out the last of the fishy oil.

"Well, well," she cooed, "a little Mario Lemieux!"

Sherlock wondered whether this Mario Le Mew was a cartoon character related to that skunk that so amused John—Pepe Le Pew was his name (God, how he wished he could delete at least some of the John related trivia from his hard drive!). Sherlock never got the humor of the show as he couldn't get past the fact that the skunk was so stupid it couldn't tell its own species from a black cat striped with white paint. And just when he thought the show couldn't get worse, on came a wise-cracking Brooklyn-born rabbit and bald dwarf with a severe speech impediment belting out inane lyrics to Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. After hearing that, Sherlock couldn't listen to his beloved Ring Cycle for months.

"Mario Le Mew? You think so?" Sherlock asked in a way that neither confirmed nor denied he was familiar with the name.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I know you're no more of a hockey fan than your brother," Yulia began with a twinkle in her eye. "Mario Lemieux led the league in scoring for six seasons when he played for Pittsburgh. He's my husband Viktor's all-time favorite, although we're both Nottingham Panthers fans now. I asked Mr. Holmes whether he could get us tickets to see the Ukrainian national team play Team GB next month, but he said that it would be impossible—they were all sold out. But I know the real reason. He's worried that Viktor will see his old boss at the game. He's Mr. Holmes' rival at the Bureau and a mad hockey fan, and Mycroft thinks he'll take the opportunity to talk Viktor into being his driver again. Viktor would never accept the job (the man's a snake) but if he did, then of course Mr. Holmes could no longer use my services. It's touching in a way, Mr. Holmes not wanting to lose me, but I do find his lack of faith in my husband's judgment to be a little disappointing."

Wonderful! Yulia had initiated negotiations. Sherlock just hoped that, between Johnny's feline wiles and his own resourcefulness, he would be able to get what he wanted.

"It's not my brother's fault that he doesn't understand. Unlike you and me, he has no personal life to speak of and so he hasn't a clue as to the lengths people are willing to go keep these two areas separate, the work secure and everything else private."

Yulia nodded while smiling approvingly. She then using the opening he'd given her to make her request.

"I was thinking, Mr. Holmes, that if your brother could be sure that his rival would not be attending the game, that he would be occupied elsewhere with a pressing matter (what that might be I could only guess) then I am fairly confident that a pair of tickets would become available."

The favor she was asking was an incredibly simple. Sherlock guessed that Mycroft would love to take care of this matter himself (while being an overbearing and officious brother, he was a loyal and considerate boss) but for political reasons he could not risk getting involved. And of course, given their history of cutthroat competition ("sibling rivalry" John had quaintly called it) asking Sherlock for a personal favor, no matter how small, was out of the question.

"Oh, I happen to know that this man will, indeed, be engaged elsewhere the night of the game. In fact, I can personally guarantee it. And because I always try to keep Mycroft in the loop on such matters, I'll send him a text.… Done."

In her excitement Yulia squeezed the little cat a little too tightly. With small squeak of complaint, little Johnny squirmed free and leapt from the arms of his admirer to the safety of his chair. Sherlock winced when he saw the bawdy little cat start into his grooming routine, all the while tracking the latest object of his affection with large, lust-filled eyes. The inordinate amount of care and pride the saucy fellow took in the upkeep of his enormous furry balls and his joy in displaying them to the world no longer disturbed Sherlock, but he wasn't sure how Yulia would react to the sight. He knew that her affection for the wee cat had played no small part in the woman's willingness to negotiate a deal outside of Mycroft's directives. As it turned out, however, he needn't have worried. Yulia was still totally smitten, for her face shone with admiration and, again, that soft, moaning sigh escaped her lips. It was with some reluctance that Yulia returned her attention back to Sherlock.

"I am grateful for your help, Mr. Holmes. But you're mistaken in saying that your brother has no personal life. If I may say so, you and Mrs. Holmes are his personal life. That's why I'm certain he'll enquire about your wellbeing the next time I see him. Perhaps you could help by making a list of things you'd like me to tell him, apart from anything to do with your flatmate, of course. I'm sure Mr. Holmes isn't interested in prying into what is surely none of his business."

Sherlock had made many deals in his time, but this one was, far and away, the most satisfying. Yes, he'd gotten the very thing he'd wanted; his flat would be cleaned with Yulia's promise of complete discretion. But he'd gotten something else too, something he'd never even thought was important until he'd gotten it. By doing this favor for Yulia, Sherlock would also be doing a favor for his brother, one he'd chosen to do all his own without being bullied into it. And although the relationship with Mycroft hadn't grown past the need for caginess and surveillance, Sherlock had successfully negotiated for the right to at least author one of reports on himself, in effect communicating with his brother more honestly and directly than he'd done in years. He felt good, so good in fact that Sherlock found himself wanting to something else for Mycroft. Sherlock's mind quickly landed on the one area where Mycroft would most likely be in need of assistance.

"Has Mycroft mentioned what he's getting Mummy for her birthday next month?"

The way that Yulia rolled her eyes meant that Sherlock's hunch had been right.

"No. He was going to take her to the opera because he knows she's fond of that new tenor, but she declined, insisting instead on a family dinner at home with her boys."

This was indeed Sherlock's lucky day. As it happened, a few years back Sherlock had done a favor for that very same tenor. A mere understudy at the time, a valuable bauble worn by the star soprano had turned up among his things in the dressing room. When Sherlock proved his innocence, the man, a passionate Spaniard, had thanked the surprised detective with a smothering embrace and a promise that he would repay him someday, somehow. Now was the perfect time to ask for that favor. One phone call and Sherlock knew the tenor would clear his schedule to sing a private birthday aria for the mother of the man who'd cleared his name.

"Let Mycroft know he needn't worry about a gift. I've taken care of it for him. I'll text him the details later." Sherlock felt the tightening of seldom used muscles as a genuine smile stretched across his face.

Yulia, looking similarly pleased, returned his smile. She then proceeded (under Sherlock's careful supervision) to efficiently sort trash from treasure and arrange everything in piles until there was more than enough room for a dust rag or vacuum to pass. Johnny, still seated in his chair, followed her movements with interest, stretching out to receive a caress behind the ear or a rub under the chin whenever Yulia passed. When the vacuum came out, however, the little cat bolted for Sherlock's bedroom where he remained hidden despite Yulia's pleas for him to come out so she could give him a goodbye kiss.

Yulia left and the flat was quiet, but still Johnny did not come out. Curious, Sherlock searched the bedroom. He found Johnny hiding in the bottom corner of his wardrobe, a pair of glowing eyes peeking out from a nest of woolen scarves.

"That was quite rude of you, Johnny, not saying goodbye," Sherlock said as he carefully lifted up the soft little bundle. "She was nice, as Mycroft's minion's go, and she really liked you because, being intelligent, she sees how wonderful you are. I doubt those lascivious alley cats you cavort with appreciate you for any reason beyond the obvious. You'd do better to stick with human companions. They're the ones who see your true value; your curiosity, your bravery, your adventurousness, your soft underbelly that you're not afraid to show. It's not every day a person runs into someone like you, someone so perfectly suitable as a companion. It's going to be hard saying goodbye, Johnny. But while I very much hate to say it, it's time. You may have disappointed Yulia, but there's someone else who's been waiting for you, and I can't, in good conscience, delay your return any longer."

Sherlock hurriedly threw on his coat, tucked Johnny inside, and headed out to do the right thing. His attachment to the cat was neither light nor frivolous, and Sherlock knew that if he delayed returning him any longer, there was a good chance he would change his mind.

As he walked the short distance to Johnny's rightful home, Sherlock pushed aside all the negative thoughts of separation. Instead he focused only on the living warmth pressed against his abdomen so that the powerful sensation of comfort and communion would be permanently etched upon his mind.

The actual farewell, the sight of Johnny bounding up the fire escape with a stunning display of balance and agility, then squeezing through the narrowly cracked window, was anticlimactic. It was only on the return trip that Sherlock, master of observation, felt a little empty, like he'd lost something, when he noted that the March wind bites a little harder without a small warm companion inside one's coat.


	7. Home at Last

**Title:** Johnny Cat, Chapter 7: Home at Last

**Rating: ** PG

**Characters:** John, Sherlock

**Warnings:** Snuggling with dubious consent.

**Word Count:** This chapter: about 4,400. Complete Story: just over 24,000.

**Summary:** Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of two friendships.

**Beta: **IShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.

**Author's Notes**: This story is complete. I will be posting a new chapter every three days.

**Johnny Cat**

**Chapter 7: Home at Last**

The cab ride back from Heathrow felt like the longest John had ever taken in his life. He was tired and dehydrated after what had turned out to be long and grueling plane ride, and the usually comforting sway of the taxi as it wove in and out of the late night traffic only served to make him queasy. But when it finally pulled up in front of number 221 and John saw the lit window of his flat, he was instantly cheered. Sherlock was home and now John was too: soon all would be right with the world. Tipping the cabby generously with the last of his pocket money, John stepped up onto the familiar stoop and turned the key to enter the warm embrace of home.

Upon entering the flat, however, John quickly saw that all was not as he'd expected. Sherlock, who had never before failed to greet him after a prolonged absence, was nowhere to be seen. John considered that maybe he should be happy about this, as Sherlock's usual greeting was to pointedly ignore John as he continued on with whatever destructive, anti-social activity he'd chosen, usually one involving shooting or smashing or burning or dissecting. But then John also remembered the one time he had returned to find Sherlock doing nothing at all, just lying on the couch sulking, petulantly, like an overgrown toddler. To his shame, John realized he wouldn't mind finding Sherlock in such a state because it would prove that Sherlock had missed him.

Venturing into the living room, John became increasingly uneasy. Something was amiss, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Finally it dawned on him that the room was suspiciously bare, containing about half the usual clutter. Odd too was that the remaining assortment of Sherlock's possessions (mainly books, unopened mail, and various "objets bizarres") was neatly stacked in piles rather than strewn about in the usual haphazard manner. Most disconcerting of all, however, was that the flat smelled wrong. Gone was the regular mélange of odors, the all-pervasive dust and damp punctuated by stronger smells of acrid chemicals and, on occasion, wood smoke. In its place John detected only the lemony/floral scent of a high-end cleaning product. John's first thought was that Sherlock had been performing an experiment involving some such solution. But upon taking a closer look at the furniture, the carpet, and the mantle, John found, to his complete amazement, that the flat had been recently and thoroughly cleaned.

So, there was no sign of Sherlock, and the flat was both tidy and hygienic. John felt his heart rate rise and his stomach clench as his mind struggled to make sense of these facts. This level of cleanliness at Baker Street was unprecedented and could only mean trouble of the highest order. Perhaps Sherlock had been reckless and one of his experiments had produced an explosion so massive it had damaged half of his possessions and soiled the rest so badly it had left him with no choice but to clean. Or maybe the explosion had been Sherlock himself, so crazy with loneliness and boredom after being left on his own for almost four full days that he'd snapped and wrecked the place. Whatever the case, something of enormous power had left its mark, and Sherlock had taken great pains to hide it. "Well," thought John, "at least Sherlock's not badly injured, because if he were, he could have never managed to do all this."

After a minute of wild and fruitless speculation, Soldier John took charge and ordered him to pull it together. The only way to get answers about Sherlock's wellbeing was to ask Sherlock himself. Scanning the room, John spotted an abandoned book on the couch and a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table (made by Mrs. Hudson, perhaps) suggesting that his flatmate couldn't be far. John started to breathe easier. The book and the cuppa meant Sherlock had been relaxing, not stomping about in a temper or, worse, curled up somewhere in the dark caught in the grip of a black mood. But then where was Sherlock now? He must have heard John come in. After the stress of his trip and the curious state of the flat, John really needed some reassurance that everything at Baker Street, especially Sherlock, was alright. Shrugging the exhaustion from his shoulders, John dropped his bags and called out, loudly, to announce his return.

As it turned out, Sherlock had been close by all along. For out from the kitchen he strode, a six-foot high energetic bustle of blue bathrobe, his eyes shining, a warm smile spread across his full and imperious mouth. Oddly he was carrying a pair of salad tongs.

"Ah, John, you look like you could do with something to eat. I've fixed a late supper. Go wash up while I pour the drinks."

John kept Sherlock waiting, staring for what seemed a very long while before he was able to finally issue a tentative sounding "OK". With a satisfied smirk, Sherlock turned on his heels and disappeared back into the kitchen, happily humming and clicking out a staccato rhythm with the tongs as he went.

In a daze John walked to the bathroom where he proceeded to splash handful after handful of cold water on his face in the hope that the shock would lift the fog of confusion and everything in his home would again make sense. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Yes, John was immensely relieved that Sherlock was OK, that he wasn't the thin, ashen, agitated mess he'd expected. But that had always been their routine; John left, Sherlock suffered in his absence, and John (wracked by guilt for having left in the first place) doted on Sherlock until he was restored to his vital and insufferable self. He knew it was wrong, but John couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that Sherlock had figured out how to manage so very well without him. Because the Sherlock he'd just seen, clicking salad tongs and humming, was not just OK, he was radiant! His eyes gleamed, his hair was lustrous (even more so than usual) and his skin, though pale, positively glowed. And worst of all, it appeared that, in John's absence, Sherlock had been really and truly happy. John could not deny that he was more than a little jealous of whatever Sherlock had found to take his place.

Catching his own reflection in the mirror; lines deepened from exhaustion, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, skin dull and winter-worn (God, was that a blemish erupting on his cheek?); John saw the toll his trip had taken. Worse, on the inside John felt like just like he looked, like shit. Clearly the accumulation of heavy meals, too much alcohol, a small dose of humiliation, and that seven hour plane ride from hell had really done a number on his physical self as well as his disposition. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked and sounded healthier than before John had left, leaving John to wonder, "What the bloody use, then, am I?"

John's soldier brain, having zero tolerance for self-pity, again came to the rescue. There was, it told him, a perfectly plausible explanation. Maybe, in John's absence, Mrs. Hudson had really stepped up her game. Maybe she had found a way to circumnavigate Sherlock's usual defenses against her sometimes overzealous mothering. John wouldn't put it past her—experience had taught him she was a woman of great ingenuity and surprising depths. The more John thought about it, the more he liked the Mrs. Hudson scenario. Selfishly, he knew that Sherlock could not tolerate Mrs. Hudson's doting for long and so would be very glad to have John back looking after him in his easy, more companionable way. Still, as Sherlock often said, it was best not to jump to conclusions before examining all the facts. This dinner of Sherlock's would tell him a lot. If the meal was a plate of jammy dodgers and a mug of burnt coffee, John could rest at ease.

Well dinner wasn't jammy dodgers, but it wasn't beef burgundy either. It was sardines, some kind of raw leafy greens, undressed, and milk. Yes, milk. John hadn't had milk for supper since he was a boy.

The second John sat down, Sherlock tucked into his meal, not bothering to cut up the fish, but instead popping them into his mouth whole so that the tails wriggled as he chewed until they too slid past his lips. He alternated fish, then greens, then milk in quick succession and was done in three minutes flat. John's plate was clean, so he must have eaten his meal, but honestly, he couldn't remember, being so tired and more than a little distracted by Sherlock's imitation of feeding time at the marine mammal sanctuary. There was also the distraction of unanswered questions hanging in the air. Since when did Sherlock make dinner? Since when did he even care about the flat's appearance, never mind clean it? And why was he so damned happy? "Well", thought John, "at least I know why he looks so healthy." John's suspicion that Sherlock, not one to be overly concerned with food, had eaten the same three items at every single meal the entire time John had been gone was quickly confirmed.

"I apologize that there's no more sardines. I went through your entire cache while you were away, but not to worry—the case I ordered online should arrive tomorrow. Would you like some more milk? I know I would."

Before Sherlock had risen out of his chair, John leapt up saying "I'll get it. Least I can do what with you doing all this…um…cooking." If he were going to reassert himself as the domestic caretaker in this partnership, John thought it best he start immediately.

Swinging open the refrigerator door, John let out a shriek. He thought he'd be used to this by now, surprises in the fridge, but he wasn't. There in the door where the milk usually resided, hung a row of six dead mice. They were swinging by their tails, the ends of which Sherlock had apparently taped to the underside of the butter compartment. John thought the sight reminded him of a macabre mobile, the kind Sherlock might have enjoyed as a child.

"Don't jostle the experiment!" barked Sherlock as he raced to the fridge and then, with great care, shut the door.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I've been away, or hadn't you noticed? Besides, you've never appropriated this part of the fridge before. Honestly, Sherlock, is not even the milk compartment sacred?"

John realized that he was starting to sound unreasonably peevish and, with a sigh, changed his tone.

"Not the usual variety, those mice. Did your supplier run out of the usual white _mus musculus_? Those looked more like common field mice."

Sherlock's eyes sparkled with amusement. He remembered how Johnny had surprised him that first day by escaping out the window only to return with a small furry offering of friendship. With a touching air of ceremonious solemnity, the proud little cat had dropped the mouse, stunned but still very much alive, at Sherlock's feet. Johnny had repeated this ritual five more times during the course of his stay, although the mice sometimes ended up in a shoe or, on one occasion, in Sherlock's bed. That particular mouse had revived before Sherlock found it, giving Johnny a chance to put on a spectacular midnight display of his hunting skills. Sherlock regretted he'd not had a clear view of the hunt until the final pounce and capture when the mouse, miscalculating, made a desperate dash across Sherlock's chest.

"For this experiment I got my supplies from a friend. He prefers field mice, being an absolute wizard at live-trapping. And since I'm testing the effectiveness of various embalming techniques, the variety is of no consequence as long as it's consistent."

"Friend? Which friend?" John tried so very hard not to sound jealous but failed.

Sherlock had known the instant he'd observed John's weary posture and haggard face that the trip to the medical conference had been a disappointment. But Sherlock didn't particularly care about that. What interested Sherlock was what he saw when he looked in John's eyes; that familiar brightness and eagerness as John sought out Sherlock's own, trying to reconnect. They told Sherlock what he most wanted to hear; that his friend had missed him terribly and was very glad to be home.

For Sherlock's part, it felt wonderful to have John back. Yes, Johnny had been good company, a rare find, indeed. But humans, with their way of complicating everything by interjecting their hopes, their fears, their egos (and that ever-present subtext) into every gesture, every word, were beautiful, beautiful like long equations with enormous numbers of variables. And John was _his_ human. Definitely. John's life was tied up with Sherlock's own in such glorious complexity as no one else's had ever been, and Sherlock loved the man for it. Their bond was beyond shallow sentiment—they just fit each other so perfectly, like a matched set, and each was better, happier, and more complete for the association. So while on some level Sherlock found John's irrational insecurity upsetting, he could not help but revel in the warm feeling that now flowed outward from his chest and into his long extremities. Because Sherlock knew that the ache in John's voice as he asked about Sherlock's new "friend" was proof that John felt this bond too, and that Sherlock, a difficult man whom so few liked, was loved.

Supremely confident that John would soon reject this ridiculous notion that he could ever by replaced by another "friend", Sherlock decided to capitalize on the opportunity John's current state of mind presented. Being tired and a little emotionally off balance, John would be unusually susceptible to Sherlock's well-intentioned manipulation, for their mutual benefit, of course. So, with absolute conviction that the end justified the means, Sherlock initiated his plan. He began by changing the subject.

"I bought you a present. It's on your bed. Go try it on."

"Sherlock! You really didn't have to…"

Sherlock watched as, predicted, John's face registered first astonishment, then relief, followed by joy.

"Are you saying you don't want it? Because you haven't even seen it yet, and it doesn't make sense..."

Sherlock had often found guilt to be a powerful motivator when delivered subtly.

"No, no. It's from you so of course I want it, Sherlock. I guess I'm just a little surprised. Something to wear then?"

John's head was reeling. Sherlock had gone shopping? For a present? For him? If it weren't for the dead mice in the fridge, this salad tong wielding, flat cleaning, song humming Sherlock would be almost unrecognizable. Thank God for those dead mice!

"Yes. Obviously. Go and put it on while I do the washing up. I want to see how it looks."

"Now? But it's late, how about…"

"I saw it in a shop and I thought it would suit you. I'm eager to get confirmation," Sherlock lied. He'd decided upon the exact specifications of this gift long before making his purchase.

At this point, the look on John's (his John's) face, tired and confused, but so openly glad to see him, made Sherlock break, for just a moment, from his well-intended plan.

"John, before you go, I'd just like you to know that you are always sorely missed whenever you're away. It's hard for me to say things like that. That's why I had the flat cleaned. And made dinner. So you'd know."

Upon finishing this spontaneous confession, Sherlock felt the color spread across his cheeks the same way it had that first day at school when Mummy, saying her goodbyes, had kissed him in front of his new school mates. Like he'd done back then, Sherlock stood silent for a few seconds, eyes to the floor, biting his lip until the uncomfortable, but not entirely unwelcome, feelings passed.

Despite the unpleasant awkwardness, Sherlock found he was pleased he'd told John how he felt. But he made a mental note that, in future, he would guard against speaking his heart except in the rarest of circumstances as, apparently, emoting temporarily drained him. Luckily John's foot-shifting, blushing, ear-to-ear-grinning acceptance of Sherlock's admission helped him to recover quickly.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, a mix of exasperation and relief. "Here I was thinking you'd cleaned the flat because you'd blown something up."

John beaming up at his unpredictable flatmate; the one person who would never bore him but also always knew how to put him at ease.

"Well, the place was in a bit of a state before the maid got at it. My friend, you see, gets a little rambunctious and we invented this game…"

Predictably, upon the mention of Sherlock's "friend", John's expression snapped defensively into one of mild irritation. Sherlock was more than willing to mislead John into thinking he had a rival for Sherlock's affection if that meant it made him more amenable to Sherlock's gentle persuasion. The payoff was going to be so good that John's minor emotional distress was not worth worrying about. Besides, the deception wouldn't last long. John, when well-rested, was really quite perceptive. That's why it was imperative that Sherlock implement his plan immediately, before John had a chance to sleep.

"You know Sherlock, it's late and I'm really tired. I'll try on your present, but then I'd really like to unwind a bit, watch a little telly, and then get to bed. Can we talk about this friend of yours in the morning?"

"Fine. As long as I get to see you wearing my present." Sherlock resisted hopping madly about the flat in giddy anticipation. Instead he just smiled expectantly.

The cobalt blue jumper was like nothing John owned, like nothing he would ever, ever buy for himself. He knew that the color suited him, but still it seemed just a little too flashy. And the material was not the usual sturdy jumper wool but a fiber much softer, silky even. John wasn't sure that suited him either. But as Sherlock had made such a big deal about it (and had cleaned the flat and had made dinner) the least he could do was try it on.

John first tried pulling the jumper on over his shirt, but the fit was so snug he couldn't get it down past his shoulders. He thought about asking Sherlock to exchange it for a larger size, but, as he wasn't planning on wearing it much anyway, John decided to take off his shirt and try again. This time he was able to get it on, although the fit was uncomfortably, even revealingly, tight. John had to admit, though, that the soft feel of the material close against his skin was not entirely unpleasant. Maybe after Sherlock had seen him in it, he'd understand why John wanted to exchange the jumper for a larger size. John would have to make up some excuse as to why the larger one he came back with was beige.

Tightly sheathed in his new present, John walked into the living room where he found Sherlock already seated on one side of the couch. Fully engrossed with whatever was on the screen of his laptop, Sherlock seemed oblivious to both John's presence and the telly, which, apparently, he'd tuned to an old science fiction movie, a favorite of John's. John could not help but smile at the significance of the choice as he knew that Sherlock loathed science fiction, considering it a mockery of his own very real and very important work.

John was about to sit on his usual chair when he noticed a large wet spot on the seat. Without taking his eyes off the laptop, Sherlock pointed to the empty space on the couch saying, "The maid had to apply quite a bit of stain remover. Apparently someone has not been careful while eating his crisps."

John settled into place offered him. Sherlock, still busy with his computer, had yet to say anything about the jumper, so John cleared his throat, loudly. He'd gone through the trouble of trying it on, at Sherlock's insistence, so Sherlock owed him some eye contact at the very least.

"Well?" John asked when Sherlock finally looked up. "It's a mite snug. The color's nice, though. Bright, but nice."

"I knew it would suit you," Sherlock answered with a pressed smile before turning his face back to the screen. "Go ahead and put your feet up. It may not be as comfortable as that chair of yours, but there's plenty of room. You can lean against me. It's cold outside and the furnace doesn't appear to be quite up to the job. In fact a little body heat would not be unwelcome."

John hesitated just a second as he mulled over his flatmate's invitation to, in short, "snuggle up together" on the couch. Sherlock only liked touching other people, John included, when he had a purpose. It was very possible that this was part of some sort of experiment Sherlock was conducting, but John could not, for the life of him, figure out what it might be. Anyhow, what Sherlock had suggested made sense. John was very tired, it was a little cold in the flat, and stretching out on the couch while watching mindless telly did sound very appealing. Carefully John leaned against Sherlock's shoulder and slid his legs up onto the other end of the couch. Sherlock shifted slightly so that John's head and back fit comfortably against his side. Sherlock's eyes, however, never left the screen.

"OK?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and gave a soft grunt for "yes".

The movie was dreadfully, wonderfully campy. About ten minutes in it became apparent that Sherlock was paying attention after all. He added his usual commentary, mainly groans of annoyance, but sometimes an indignant "Please!" when the offending pseudoscience was particularly egregious. But for John, the best moment by far was when Sherlock yelled, "No, no, no, he's using the wrong voltage!" during the scene when the mad scientist animated his creature.

Sherlock's protests worked like a lullaby, and soon John found himself in a drowsy, contented stupor. His belly was full of unusual but satisfying food. His friend was back at his side. And the new jumper, having somehow stretched and adjusted to conform to his shape, was not a bit uncomfortable. In fact, it felt quite nice, kind of like he had grown his own soft pelt that would protect him from winter's chill.

Now on the brink of sleep, John was unaware that he had slumped lower so that his head now rested in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock had put away his laptop in anticipation of John's more supine position and was studying his friend a little anxiously, wondering when would be the right moment to take the next step. There was a lot riding on his timing, specifically John's trust, but Sherlock had taken his plan this far and was not about to stop now. Although he didn't have a clear view of John's eyes, and so couldn't be positive they were closed, Sherlock could still tell that John was nearly asleep. John's previously tense neck muscles had relaxed against his thigh while his head had grown heavy in Sherlock's lap. A few minutes later John's breathing slowed to a restful pace. Then, like an answer to Sherlock's prayer, John rolled completely onto his back so that his well-fed Angora-clad belly was turned upward like an offering of comfort to Sherlock's waiting hand.

As he entered that fanciful REM state, John began having the most wonderful dream. He dreamt he was an animal, fur-clad, bewhiskered, and sleek; an otter lying snug in his burrow, his holt. Everything around him spoke of home and comfort, from the soft mat of vegetation beneath him to the rich aromas of damp earth and his own musky pelt. John knew about holts because, as a boy on holiday with his family, he'd seen one, an inconspicuous hole dug out beneath an old log on the bank of the River Stour. Long an interest of his, John had dreamt about otters before, but this was the first dream in which he actually _was_ one.

In his dream John felt something pleasant rub up against him, a warm furry body much like his own. Even in the darkness he was able to recognize this fellow otter, though feel and smell, as his friend and life companion, Sherlock's counterpart in this ottery dream world. With a grunt of recognition, Otter John leaned back into the long familiar form, one that, not surprisingly, knew just how to cradle him. The warmth, the pulse, the life that Otter John felt as he lay against his companion was indescribably comforting. Outside the holt the March wind raged and it was bitterly cold, but he didn't care. He was warm and safe and with his friend, and so he was home.

Blissfully relaxed and sated with a belly full of fish, Otter John didn't think he couldn't want for more. He soon found he was wrong. For just as he was being overtaken by sleep, Otter John distinctly felt a paw very carefully, very tenderly, trace small circles through the silky coat of his belly. Apparently, his otter companion had decided to groom him. To his surprise, Otter John found that the act had a meaning that went far beyond the superficial; for the rhythmic rubbing and stroking was a language unto itself, one that reached the deepest places that words could not touch. In response Otter John purred with happiness. Stretching himself out, he adjusted his angle of repose to better receive the gift he was offered, the gift of a caring touch, of mutual trust and close companionship, in short, the gift of love.

-Fin-


End file.
